


SWORDS & BROKEN SHIELDS ★ REMASTERED ★

by elfroot



Series: King & Lionheart [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attraction, Awkward Crush, Blood, Childhood Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cullistair, Developing Relationship, Dragon Age Quest: The Battle of Denerim, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Grey Wardens, Hurt/Comfort, Kinloch Hold, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alistair, POV Cullen Rutherford, Roses, Sexual Tension, Sleepy Cuddles, Templar Training, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At long last, here is the <b>new edition</b> of Swords & Broken Shields, revised and <i>expanded</i>, because it deserved <i>more</i>, more of Cullen and more of Alistair, sometimes apart but always together, <i>where it matters</i>, from 9:26 Dragon to 9:60 Dragon. Follow them through thick and thin, the journey of two boys growing up together and finding each other, losing each other, and ultimately reuniting once more, changed by time and turmoil, but still beating with the same hearts. Divided in 4 Acts: The Chantry Years, The Blight & Kirkwall, The Inquisition, The Years After.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters in the First Act are titled based on the Thedosian Calendar, which you can find [here](http://rederiswrites.tumblr.com/post/130524594571/thedosian-calendar-and-rough-modern-equivalents).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

  **9:26 DRAGON || HARING  
ALISTAIR**

 **"** **We were strangers, starting out on a journey**  
Never dreaming what we’d have to go through  
Now here we are, I’m suddenly standing  
At the beginning with you

 **No one told me I was going to find you**  
Unexpected, what you did to my heart  
When I lost hope, you were there to remind me  
This is the start "  
—AT THE BEGINNING, RICHARD MARX  & DONNA LEWIS

 

"Don't _ever_ call him that _again_."

Brisk. _Hushed_. Barely louder than a whisper spewed through gritted teeth, and Carroll sneers as Cullen glowers, all up in his face and half a head smaller, and Alistair feels like an intruder. He seldom gets to see this side of him here, out in the open. Cullen's deference is irreproachable, hardly a single undisciplined bone in his body, and watching him snarl at their comrade now, for him—or _because_ of him, rather—leaves his mind reeling on nothing, _on too much_ , fleeting quips eluding his flair. Cullen's already a class act in the Chantry, according to the Knight-Commander—according to _anyone_ with a pair of eyes, really—and if Carroll's hardly anything more than a cog in the wheel, Alistair doesn't feel any more relevant among them, not enough to understand Cullen's eagerness to spring to his defense.

"Call him what?" Carroll jeers, his face the epitome of his overall filthy nature; it could easily stop a clock, though it does very little to stop Cullen from growling. "A _bastard_?"

Oh, Carroll. So clever he could die. It stung, before. It still does, in ways. But he's grown used to the slander, _he knows what he is_ , and yet Cullen won't have it. Carroll's stepping on a line that's been crossed many times over, one Cullen redraws now, much narrower—if Alistair doesn't intervene soon, he suspects they'll be at each other's throats faster than a templar in the wake of an apostate.

 _Physically_.

"Rutherford," Alistair clears his throat, and he can't decide if he should move forward _or_ backward, one hand fixed in mid-air. "Don't bother, it's alri—"

"No, it's _not_ ," Cullen tilts his head, a sidelong glare and a curt sweep of his arm—Alistair swallows, one step farther away. "You're one of us."

Is he, though?

" _Pfaugh_ , he's only here because—"

"And why are _you_ here, Carroll." It's not a question. "Why were you _recruited_? I doubt it was for that particular _talent_ of yours that never fails to knock you flat on your arse every time we spar. How long do you think you'll last against abominations if you can't even block _steel_ with your _shield_?"

It almost sounds unfair—Cullen is rarely ever defeated during spars, however unaware he may seem to be of his own aptitudes, of his own _everything_ , and Carroll takes the blow without grace, reduced to silence as he seethes, a grimace twisted on a rebuke he can't find.

His fists tighten at his sides, and Alistair promptly reclaims the step he's forgone.

"Whatever we were before doesn't define who we are _now_ ," Cullen straightens, firm still but mindful of Carroll's stance—if he dared to confront him, he most likely _isn't_ willing to cause an actual brawl. "We must stand together, and _you_ will address him with the same respect we all deserve."

Ah, Cullen. Meek as a lamb, a lion in wool clothing. He knows how to be heard, when he needs to be, and Alistair's face has considerably warmed at the sound of his admonition, laced with the kind of altruism and devotion that should always thrive within their hearts. His own beats a little faster, and Carroll's face has warmed as well, for different reasons—he _gnarls_ , spits at Cullen's feet, and he leaves, making it clear in the way he scowls that he isn't entirely done with him.

"Whew," Alistair combs moist fingers through his hair, stomach growling—now that the tension's dissipated, he remembers that he was on his way to the kitchens. "That was close."

Cullen merely grunts, a non-committal noise as his palm rubs the back of his neck. It's hard to tell what he thinks, but it's clear he's grown slightly flustered—out of fatigue or discomfort, Alistair doesn't know, and he cautiously leans closer, wanting to thank him and wondering if he should.

"You didn't have to do that, you know."

"He's been grating on my nerves for much longer than I care to remember," Cullen sighs, his normally well-kept hair now hirsute with loose curls, results of a long training session—results of aggravation as well, if his altercation with Carroll's any indication—and Alistair wonders if anyone actually paid attention to the dispute, noting just now the swords still clanging around them. "He's nothing more than a troublemaker."

"And I don't?"

"You don't... what?"

"Grate. On your _nerves_."

 _That_ earns him a long, quizzical look, and a shake of head later, Cullen snorts, causing Alistair's lips to twitch upward as he follows him through the main hall of the monastery.

"Every hour of every day," he sighs, _again_ , but Alistair's hardly deterred.

Despite the distances he keeps, he knows Cullen doesn't mind him there, and no matter how austere, he never fails to make him feel like he belongs—if not _here_ , at least _somewhere_ in his vicinity, and that's more than anyone has ever done for him.

"That often, huh," he smiles, coy, his voice louder than it should, as if to muffle the ruckus in his chest. "And yet here I am, unscathed and still breathing, rarely ever on the receiving end of that... glare of yours."

"I'm fairly certain I'm glaring _now_."

"Oh, that. No, _that's_ you, you're just... _standoffish_. Overall, I mean. And... well, alright, maaaaybe you're a little annoyed now. You're particularly expressive, you know. For such a stern guy."

"Stern," Cullen merely repeats, the sidelong glance he casts him mildly perplexed. "You make it sound like it's a bad thing."

"Do I? Well... it's not. Not really, not where you're concerned anyhow. Just like my nerve-grating antics don't seem to bother you as much as they should... at least if I were anyone else."

"Anyone... else?"

Cullen's frown deepens, and Alistair's smile widens, facing each other at the end of the hallway—it splits into two passages, kitchens left and bedrooms right, and they're not headed the same way.

"You have a soft spot for me, Rutherford," he grins, and _there's_ that other side of Cullen, one of many, unfurling in front of him—he can practically _see_ the growing chaos in his head, fumbling in his own mind as darker colors spread to his cheeks. "It's pointless to deny it now."

"I-I don't—"

"It's alright," he waves him off, taking a step back, _two_ , a noise he wishes he hadn't made flowing out of his nose with his breath. "I do too."

He doesn't wait for a reaction; he turns on his heels, his mouth a little dry, unwilling to stay and catch in Cullen's eyes what he hopes he'll never see there—rejection, perhaps, something he's grown accustomed to from different sights, and he fears Cullen might take his teasing confession the wrong way.

It wouldn't be the first time someone misunderstood him, and the food he swallows tastes stale on his tongue as the thought lingers in his head, _because the wrong way feels right_ , and he holds his breath again, quicker when he exhales.

He won't catch it until he finds Cullen asleep in their room, but it's _frantic_ , leaving him light-headed, and while he lies stiff on the mattress, eyes wide on the ceiling, he ponders, _abstractly_ , if he might have misunderstood _himself_.

The answer keeps him awake until the sun rises; something's changed... or perhaps it's been there all along.

 

**[elfrooted.tumblr.com](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/) **

 

 

 

 


	2. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 2

**9:27 DRAGON || BLOOMINGTIDE  
ALISTAIR**

****_"There I was, none the wiser_  
Both of us, different trajectories  
Who'd have thought we'd be right here in this spot?" ****  
—TIMING IS EVERYTHING, LIGHTS

" _THEIRIN_."

His name flares through the corridors of the monastery, feral, _loud_ , a growl laced with just enough vehemence for him to know that he's in trouble. _Andraste preserve him_. He shouldn't have, and still he did anyway, a stolen piece of cake, _cheese cake_ , half of it shoved into his mouth now, and he hurries back to his room, bumping into walls as he glances nervous over his shoulder. _Cullen_. He catches a glimpse of him, fierce as he rounds the hallway's corner, _running_ , savage and furious, _after him_ , and Alistair nearly chokes on his bite, swallowing hard with a sharp smack of his fist against his sternum. _It wasn't his to eat_. Just like a certain sword wasn't his to swing, or like a certain pair of socks wasn't his to wear, or like a certain letter wasn't his to read.

_And yet he always does this_.

Why? It's a question he's asked himself many times, lately. Getting a rise out of Cullen... _well_. He doesn't particularly enjoy upsetting him, and he never means to disrespect him, but there's something... warm, _in his chest_ , that makes him forget where he is whenever Cullen's attention is riveted on him, and he knows how badly he tries his patience and _he can't help himself_. Between cracking questionable jokes in order to make him laugh and infuriating the _living fade_ out of him, he can't seem to find the right balance, often messing up, always uneasy, and he struggles to gain his approval, his closest friend here, perhaps his only one, reeling with a burning need to just... tell him. _Everything_. Everything he feels, or everything he thinks he feels, but how is he supposed to achieve that when words escape him, when confusion fogs his mind, emotions he scarcely understands?

He doesn't know, awkward in his desire to please, and _this_ happens, _Cullen_ , ominous in the doorframe of their bedroom, commanding attention even when he doesn't wish to. Alistair recoils, a nervous and cocky grin slanting his lips as he shoves the rest of the cake into his mouth.

"You bloody—"

"Ba _sh_ tard?" Alistair suggests, mouth full and seemingly innocent as his smirk grows wider, but his pulse pounds in every inch of him and Cullen growls again, lurching forward.

_Oh, shit_.

Cullen moves swift and agile despite the broad of his body, all hard ridges and solid slabs of muscles—and to say that he was chubby just over a year ago. Alistair's _looked_ , many times during spars, a delight to watch, and he doesn't dare to question why he is so ridiculously pleasing to the eye. He doesn't dare and he doesn't try, not here, not _now_ , unable to even think as Cullen slams into him, and he tumbles back and he hits the floor, a massive jumble of infuriated potency above him.

He's grown strong, taller too, a year younger and still so capable. He's aware of his strength, rough as they wrestle yet careful enough to never actually _hurt_ him, and it's one of the things Alistair likes about him—the depth of his gentle nature, transpiring even through his jagged edges. _It's distracting_. It's what Alistair likes to tell himself as Cullen quickly gains the upper hand, pinned underneath him and wriggling like that nug he once saw, trapped in the undesired embrace of the Revered Mother, but this, here, isn't _exactly_ undesired, and he begs for mercy as laughter erupts from his lips, Cullen's gaze softer upon his face.

_Those eyes_. Flecks of gold and copper, a halo of hazel warmth set beneath thick lashes, and he catches his stare and he notes the half-smile trembling there at the corner of his mouth, and his own stills on a shaky breath.

_He doesn't know what this is,_ a moment lost in time, where everything fades around him, everything but _him_. It's happened before and it happens now, _again_ , gazes locked as Cullen's fingers twitch around his, and his grip loosens and his smile wavers, a gentle sigh on his lips and a faint question in his eyes. Alistair knows the answer. It's the same one that keeps him awake at night, when he can't silence his mind, and his throat tightens as he thinks he feels Cullen's touch upon his cheek, a tentative brush of fingertips—or perhaps it's just the breeze from the open window.

But _that_ wouldn't feel so warm, would it?

"Rutherford," he whispers, _croaks_ , his heart heavy against his ribcage.

But his voice breaks the spell and Cullen blinks, shakes his head, promptly rolling off of him and scurrying back on his feet, his palm tense around his nape.

"Don't..." he huffs, a brief glance towards him, and he looks away and he clenches his jaw, a splash of crimson splayed across his nose. "D-Don't steal my stuff again, Theirin."

It's an order, a warning that Cullen's tone fails to convey, too gentle, the same fluster in his voice that burns on Alistair's face, and he watches him leave, eyebrows quirked, aghast, his hand pressed to his chest.

_Don't steal my stuff again_ , he said. It isn't fair at all, because Cullen walks away with a piece of _him_ , and Alistair feels its pulse against his palm and he feels its strain in the back of his throat...

...and he thinks he understands.


	3. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 3

**9:27DRAGON || HARING  
CULLEN**

****_"Cause after all this time_  
Still don't know where we’re going  
But look how far we've come  
And as long as you're just as lost as I am  
I'll hold you in the morning  
Like we're the lucky ones " ****  
—LUCKY ONES, LIGHTS

They should have seen them coming. A small horde— _darkspawn_ —phantom figures caught in the glow of the campfire, _men_ , only decayed flesh now, slithering like shadows through the muggy air of the woods. It's the kind of creatures their mothers often depicted in tales meant to keep them in line, when they were boys, and Cullen realizes now, exhausted in the forest, practically _lost_ and most of his comrades gone, that even on the threshold of adulthood, it's still what they are.

_Boys_.

It could have been worse. They could have _died_ —beheaded, gnawed on _or_ tainted—yet they survived, all of them, or so Cullen assumes. It would be easier to tell if the majority of his companions hadn't _fled_ , leaving him and Alistair behind, only their swords to protect them, and he remembers, all those rotten bodies around them, undead, _dead again_ , and it should have ended there but it _didn't_ , because when has their training ever been simple? Bears followed. Huge, like something... _really huge_ , as Alistair eloquently remarked—just before being _mauled_. They screamed and they ran, nearly blind in the dark with one bear chasing after them, _the biggest_ , growling fierce and causing the ground to shake behind them. Cullen still feels his heartbeat, so wild when the fiend lurched, a massive beast covering his best friend, and he leapt without thinking, swings of his sword to discourage the bear, to _wound_ it, but he quickly realized he was no match for it. The only option left was to try and catch its attention, _to lure it away_ , so he did just _that_ , enough to give Alistair a chance to snap out of his stupor and shove to his feet. His shriek still echoes in Cullen's ears, a battle cry as he surged with his blade, and the final blow was delivered together.

The sight of him is quite different now, cheeks soaked in tears Alistair can't seem to stop, and Cullen kneels beside him, cleaning the wound on his thigh, a fire crackling slow and a dead bear nearby. He shakes still, _they both do_ , from the rush of adrenaline and from lingering fear, and Alistair sniffles as he tends to him, louder when Cullen reaches for his face, a piece of torn linen to dab his skin.

"If you keep this up, Theirin, there won't be anything left for me to bandage your wound," he says with a faint smile, a gentle warning he hopes might make him laugh—if a jesting Alistair is sometimes taxing to handle, a _crying_ one is certainly unnerving—but his eyes still water and he frowns, red-nosed and cheeks pink from the cool breeze.

"I'm probably going to die anyway, aren't I."

"Of course not, you idiot," Cullen clicks his tongue, tone sharper than intended, and he _sighs_ , making a point to really _look_ at his wound, lacerated skin framed by ripped and bloodied fabric—if the injury seems serious enough, it's nowhere near life-threatening. "It's only a scratch."

"Oh, s-suuure," Alistair sniffles again, rubbing his left eye with the back of his hand. "A _scratch_. You do know how that sounds, don't you. Like something you'd say to _reassure_ me. Just... before... I _... died_."

" _Theirin_."

Cullen's gaze snaps up, calloused and bruised fingers cupping Alistair's chin. He's scared, too, probably as much as Alistair, and his composure is on the verge of cracking—he needs to reassure the both of them before it does, lungs full as he manages another smile, a gentle tap on his jaw.

"You'll... _we'll_ be fine. They'll send a patrol and they'll find us before the sun rises again. They _will_ come back."

"But what if they don't? We won't last long here, you know. We don't even have _food_."

Of course he'd think about food, even _now_ , and Cullen snorts, _chuckles_ , a shake of his head and a sweep of his arm, the bear's carcass bathed in the dim light of their campfire.

"If you don't devour our fallen foe in one sitting, we could last for a few weeks."

"Are you calling me a glutton?" Alistair's eyebrow rises, suspicious, _piqued_. "Because I ate your _cake_."

"My cake, my bread, my _cheese_. I'm more or less calling you a thief, if anything. I've lost count of how many times you've borrowed my quilt or worn my socks."

" _Well_ , you clearly don't count very _high_."

Oh, a quip. _Finally_. There's that warmth in his gaze, that particular spark Cullen caught the first moment they met, the same that won him over years ago and the same that's kept him _sane_ , however maddening, and he smiles amused and relieved, snorting again at the push of Alistair's finger poking his chest.

"I need sustenance, you know. And _warmth_."

"And you _need_ to stop squirming." Cullen proceeds to clean his wound with a damp cloth, nearly wincing in unison with Alistair as his friend hisses on a curse—he keeps his free hand lightly pressed to his hip, a constant touch he means as reassurance. "We'll be fine, alright? We'll be back to the monastery in no time."

He's stopped crying, and yet the air about him reeks of anguish. Fatigue, perhaps—they've been awake for so long—and Cullen resumes his task, crushed elfroot and twisted gauze, admiring his handiwork with a lopsided curve slanting his mouth.

"I don't want to go back, Cullen," Alistair whispers a few moments later, and Cullen stills, smile frozen in confusion as he looks up and sees, _his spark_ , gone again—it's a different kind of despair, _no fatigue_ , and he blanches under the intensity of his gaze, so _sad_ , a wave of distress churning his guts.

_He knows_. Alistair, ever the jester—too smart for his own good despite appearances—yet underneath his good humor lies a broken heart, never bleeding for himself but for _everyone else_ , a fish out of water, and Cullen feels for him. Alistair never had a choice, and it _hurts_ , because he doesn't belong there, _with them_ , templars in training, and the thought never fails to cause his chest to tighten. But he belongs _here_. With _him_. Cullen doesn't know how well he would have managed without Alistair, a pillar when he falters, a partner, a _friend_ , and if Alistair never chose his path, they chose each other, similar in their differences, _familiar_ , and Cullen reaches for him before he even realizes what he's doing.

"I'm here," he grabs his arm, his palm curled around his shoulder, and he leans in and he closes his eyes, foreheads connected, an easy sort of fondness between them.

Alistair says nothing, a strangled noise in his throat, the same lump in his own. His breath feels warm on his skin, just over his lips, a touch of fingertips on his cheek—Cullen's eyes snap open and his jaw _clenches_ , and his heart thrashes against his ribs.

_Too much amber_.

"I, uh..."

He coughs, smile wavering, and Alistair looks down—Cullen's gaze follows, face hotter now as he carefully distances himself, his palm back where it belongs; stiff and moist and curled around his own neck.

_He's tired_. His mind feels heavier than it should, and he can't keep his eyes off him as he shifts and stretches, sitting restless by the fire. Alistair inches closer, and he wants to tell him not to move, but his warmth quiets him, a tentative sway towards him. His cheek lands light on his shoulder, and Cullen exhales, wondering just _when_ Alistair's touch began to unsettle him, an odd kind of pressure in his belly, full _and_ shallow.

It's probably best not to wonder too long, and as if on cue, Alistair breaks the silence.

"I guess it's... alright if... if you're here. _There_ , I mean. It would be a lot worse if you weren't."

Cullen's breath flows from his lips in staccato puffs, _tense_ , and Alistair doesn't seem to care, sighing long and weary as his body leans heavier against his, making Cullen's surrender much easier. He gives in, warmer, _there_ , where his blood still pounds, and he wraps his arm around him and he pulls him closer, Alistair's head tucked under his chin.

"I'm not going anywhere."

It's strange, how much it stings, not quite a lie yet not quite the truth, either, because he'll leave someday, and so will Alistair, a year more or perhaps two—it's nothing he wishes to ponder now, a sigh in ginger hair as Alistair snuggles up to him. He closes his eyes, and it almost feels like nothing's changed, like they're boys again, truly, younger and carefree and with so much time ahead of them.

But they don't have that kind of time any longer, and things _have_ changed. How and when, he's not sure, but he finds himself drawn to him in ways he was not before, needing him closer _and_ farther.

The latter often prevails... but not now, and sometimes, he questions the reasons why he's here when he could be elsewhere, another future, even if _this_ is what he's always wanted. His dream. His _life_ , ever since he was a child, and he can't wait to be a templar, to serve, to help make the world better. He can't wait, but with Alistair's body molded against his and the onslaught of young memories his proximity triggers, he feels comfortable even when he shouldn't be...

...and there's a part of him that doesn't want to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 


	4. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 4

**9:28 DRAGON || DRAKONIS  
CULLEN**

**_"Constantly killing me_  
When you're invading my mind  
You got it covered, I can't get a thought in edgewise  
What with your fast lips, and not a gap missed  
Seems like the memories are coming at me from all sides  
You're all I see, surrounding me"** ****  
—FROM ALL SIDES, LIGHTS

He doesn't feel his knees anymore. The Chant tastes dry on his tongue, and his eyes sting, a blur as the candle's light flickers with the steady flow of his breath. He knows the verses by _heart_ —the more he learns and the less _it_ knows, but in the faint glow of the bougie set upon the night table, he likes to think that nothing can perturb him, kneeling stiff and swaying ever so slightly in the midst of his pious trance.

But something _can_. He's oblivious of the owls hooting just outside the window, unaware of the cacophony echoing from the kitchens, yet his head _tilts_ at the familiar sound of light footsteps in the hallway, a wavering frown as the door creaks open. He catches a hazy silhouette from the corner of his eye and it lingers there, framed by wooden jambs and drawing nearer, then _pausing_ , only to approach again and _halt_ , and Cullen blanches under the quiet scrutiny.

"Cul... _Rutherford_."

Alistair rarely ever speaks his name, and when he does, even a fraction of it, Cullen always flinches, his _heart_ , his heart that seems to waive everything it was taught. It's embarrassing how much he enjoys the tone of his voice whenever _Cullen_ rolls on his tongue, and if he could easily blame it on the fact that nearly no one here ever calls him by his given name, the goosebumps running up his spine tell an entirely different story.

His attempt at chasing them away fizzles, and he straightens for good measure, a semblance of composure as he works out the cricks stiffening his neck.

"I brought you a little something," Alistair comes closer, carefully setting a plate beside the candle, and Cullen's attention narrows in on the offering. "Thought you might be hungry."

Bread _. Cheese._ And amidst generous crumbs, a rose, which inevitably causes Cullen to wriggle his nose. He can't stand the smell for the life of him, and Alistair _knows_ , a prank he's apparently grown very fond of, but it hardly matters now. The warmth he feels easily eclipses the scent, and there's a groan in his throat, dissolved before he's even parted his lips; he wavers the moment he tries to stand, and Alistair crouches instantly, a steady hand on his shoulder.

"How long have I been here?" Cullen winces, slightly dizzy as he distantly notes the touch of his friend sliding down his bicep—it's gone a moment later.

"Seven hours now, maybe even eight. Enough time for me to complete four assignments _and_ finish reading The History of the Chantry."

So he was in the library then, when he searched for him at dawn—or _looked_ , rather, abstractly, because he never _actively_ seeks him out, not really. He's always aware of him somehow, of his absence, a sliver of disappointment whenever he's out of sight, and he really should have thought to _look_ there. No one ever expects Alistair to spend time in the library, yet Cullen knows better—Alistair hides it well, but for anyone who listens, who _looks_ , like he does, his intelligence is unmistakable, wiser than he seems and definitely smarter than most of them, the only one so far, aside from his sister, to have beaten him at a game of chess.

He hums at the thought, and when he says nothing more, Alistair speaks again.

"Ah- _ha_ , I see I've successfully managed to impress you... It was rather mundane though, if you ask me, but _I_ can still feel my legs. Can you stand?"

"Once the room stops _spinning_ , perhaps. I've lost track of time."

" _And_ of your sense of smell, You reek like an old mabari. That's why I brought the rose, you know. No ulterior motives this time, I swear."

Cullen can't help but snort, catching a glimpse of Alistair's cheeky smile _and_ a whiff of his own smell, and he _scowls_ , tongue stuck out in mild disgust, because he's right.

He _does_ reek like an old mabari.

"I suggest you join us for the evening baths," Alistair chuckles, standing up and back, towards the door.

Cullen nods, pushing himself up.

"Go. I'll be there in a moment."

His legs wobble under his weight, and his stomach growls at the sight of the plate Alistair's brought him. Its content is gone in less than a minute, and instead of discarding the rose, he leaves it there, on the night table, a sidelong glance doubled with a smile—his gut tightens before he leaves, and he doesn't pause to wonder why.

He stretches as he walks, removing his robes on his way there. Steam wafts from the open doors, thick enough to hide what he doesn't particularly wish his comrades to see. He's not exactly a _prude_ —they've all seen each other many times over, but what little he can spare, he does, and he's never stopped to ask himself whether it was out of modesty. He's seventeen now, nearly eighteen, and he's finally _grown_ , a late bloomer to be sure, stubble light on his jaw and taller than most of them, _stronger_ , but never more than Alistair. _He_ towers over them all, broad and lean and solid, freckles across his chest and his back, and perhaps it's why Cullen keeps a towel longer than any of them around his body, because he doesn't wish to be ogled the same way he's ogled Alistair.

It's not anything he'll admit readily. They all share similar builds—he's seen a lot more than what should be considered proper, but none of them have caused his pulse to jump or his cheeks to flush, and he's not sure why Alistair unnerves him when they all essentially look the same. Perhaps it's because he knows him better than anyone else here. Perhaps it's because they're much closer than they should be, all his walls crumbling down for him, _or most of them_ , and if they are required to learn to keep a certain distance, he never successfully kept Alistair at bay.

He never really _wanted_ to.

"Rutherford!" an older recruit waves as he steps in, and Cullen acknowledges him with a tip of his chin, hanging his robes.

The ivory sconces mounted on the walls cast just enough light to guide his steps in the midst of _mist_ , and he walks towards the recruit that welcomed him, laughing now about his 'spending time with Andraste". The comment is lewd at best and Cullen doesn't miss its implications—he half-smiles, but it freezes there in unison with his feet when he notices that the pool he's heading to is void of Alistair.

"Are you sure it was Andraste?" Carroll jeers, and Cullen's stare drops, _on him_ , a trifle surly. "I hear Theirin found him on his _knees_."

Oh, for Andraste's _sake_.

"Really," Alistair mirrors his thoughts— _there he is_ —sharp and brusque from the adjacent pool; there's only two other recruits with him, as opposed to seven in the main one, _always shunned_ , and Cullen frowns, lip pulled in bubbling irritation.

"You'd think it'd be the other way around, with him being a bastard," Carroll goes on. "He's not much different from a serf or a knife-ear, and that's usually where you find the likes of 'em, _serving_ on their knees. Isn't that right, Theirin?"

"Oh, you're so _funny_. Must be hard to imagine anything else, I suppose, when you spend most of your time sparring on your _arse_. Do you know what it looks like? You know. Up _here_."

"You take that back!"

"Ahh, stab wounds to the pride are the worst, aren't they."

"I'll show you a stab wound, you—"

" _Enough_ ," Cullen growls, a click of his tongue as he retracts and sidesteps in Alistair's direction, not without a light shade of pink covering his body.

"Aw, come now, Rutherford," the older recruit tries to stop him. "Join us."

"I'll pass. There's already more than enough _filth_ in your pool."

The jab serves its purpose, causing Carroll to seethe and his peers to laugh, yet the statement isn't any less true. There's no luxury here, and if he's had clean baths before, it isn't often the case. Alistair benefits from clearer waters more frequently than any of them, and if Cullen doesn't necessarily join him for that particular reason, he welcomes the convenience.

It's the reason _behind_ the advantage that leaves a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

"I should have let you pray," Alistair smiles as he slips into the waters, the faint curve nigh-apologetic, and Cullen wants to ask _why_ , because it doesn't make sense, taking the blame when he's already taken the brunt of their mockery.

But he doesn't ask and Alistair doesn't press, and he sits quiet beside him, the rise of his chest uneven. It never bodes well. Quiet means cogitation. Quiet makes room for thoughts he doesn't want to _think_ , for a lack of distractions that would otherwise fill both his mind _and_ his senses. There _is_ a conversation going on, quips and... something about bears, perhaps from that night he found himself stranded with Alistair, just before they were found, but he's not paying attention. He nods instead, idle, and when a question echoes in his ears, his focus is already elsewhere—Alistair's thigh brushes against his, and he feels him so acutely he looks down, where they touch underwater, and he shouldn't have.

His lips part as he follows the strong cords of his arm, rivulets of water running down, his skin coated in a light film of sweat. There's more freckles than he remembers, and it's a feat in itself that he can even _see_ them, immersed in steam and in near darkness—if he squints, Alistair doesn't notice. But Cullen notices _him_. His throat. His collarbones. The hard planes of his chest and the taut nipples there amidst what most would consider blemishes. He doesn't. Alistair's peppered skin darkens around the tight buds, and Cullen's fingers twitch at his side—he feels himself flush with the same kind of warmth that overtook him when he was younger, when girls from neighbor houses offered smiles and bolder glances. He didn't think it was appropriate _then_ to find them so beautiful, and he doesn't think it's appropriate _now_ to feel the same when he looks at _him_ , but he does, _feel_ , because he _is_ beautiful, and he knows, somewhere in the far back of his mind, that it doesn't end there.

It's more, it's _raw_ , sweeter in his chest and warmer _there_ , between his thighs—Alistair's shifts against his, and Cullen's shaft jerks awake, a mild rush of panic tightening his throat. His senses are lulled here, the heat and the steam, and his mind's clouded with the same haze, a little more every time he breathes in. He wants to go. He _needs_ to go, but he's rooted there, exhausted and dizzy and _too hot_ , and he can't move without betraying himself.

He doesn't move, _not really_ , but he does bring his hand closer to his groin. It's when he catches the same movement in Alistair's lap that his head snaps up, and amber melts into gold and he nearly swallows his tongue.

There's... _something_ , in Alistair's eyes, pinning him there effortlessly. Something kind and something ardent, and something almost contrite, as if always expecting to be denied. Cullen doesn't want to push him away, but he doesn't know how to welcome him closer, either. He doesn't feel what he should and he doesn't know what he feels, his friend, the same he's sparred with since he was a boy, the same he learned with, laughed and cried with, hugged at night when they were younger, when the Fereldan breeze grew colder. He knows him by heart, like the Chant, but unlike prayers, Alistair isn't immutable, and Cullen wavers on the growing familiarity they've shared for years.

How can something so strong make him feel so vulnerable?

_Hey. Rutherford. Theirin_. _Are you comi—_

" _No_!"

The room is nearly empty—he notices instantly as he snaps out of his daze, one last recruit staring at them and visibly baffled by the perfect synchronization of their responses. _He can't leave_. Not like this, with his shaft swelling beneath the cover of his hand, and he suspects Alistair doesn't fare any better. He glares down, into his lap and redder than Cullen's ever seen him, and the very idea of him suffering from the same _ailment_ goes straight to his cock—it twitches harder, and he wants to disappear.

_Maker's balls_.

"Uh, right," the recruit backs away, on his way out. "The curfew's in thirty minutes. Don't get caught."

_Caught_. Just what does he think they—

_AHEM_.

Alistair chooses this moment to start coughing, _loud_ , and when Cullen risks another glance in his direction, he looks on the verge of explosion.

"Are you... alright?" he asks, even though he already knows.

For once, he's almost grateful for his ridiculous antics.

"Oh, yes. I'm uh, I'm alright." Alistair laughs, short and broken, all the while vehemently refusing to look at him. "It's just a cold. Probably contagious though. I should go over there. Just to be uh... safe."

_Safe_. But no distance makes him feel safe anymore, not when it comes to him, and he feels like a fool. The thought of playing along crosses his mind. Offering to share his bed for extra warmth is something he wouldn't have hesitated to suggest just a mere year ago, but now, everything that used to be banal is anything _but_ , and his shaft finally softens, shame and frustration fueling his blood.

"Would you like to borrow my quilt and a pair of socks, perhaps, to uh... keep you warm?" he asks instead, because he needs to say _something_. "It might help you sweat off the... fever."

"Fever?"

"You look a little flushed."

Alistair looks at him then, and Cullen looks away.

"Oh, right. Fever. Yes, I'll uh... _Well_. How could I refuse, when you're actually _offering_... but no. Thank you. I'll just... stay here a little longer, I think. The steam... it should help."

He coughs again, and Cullen doesn't stay for more. He doesn't grab his robes. He doesn't even dry himself. He _runs_ , back to their room, and promptly slips under the covers, hoping to find some kind of respite there, something to silence his mind. Instead his ears catch on what they might not have otherwise, but his awareness feels so heightened, _everything_ , and he doesn't miss the peculiar sound coming from the bathroom. It's stifled, but it's raw, long and throaty, and he thinks he hears his name and his shaft hardens again, and he screams into his pillow.

He finds sleep an hour before he needs to wake, and his jaw hurts from having clenched his teeth all night, his loins untouched and his head hammering.


	5. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 5

**9:28 DRAGON || HARVESTMERE  
ALISTAIR**

**"There's a drumming noise inside my head**  
**That starts when you're around**  
**I swear that you could hear it**  
**It makes such an all mighty sound**

**Louder than sirens**  
**Louder than bells**  
 **Sweeter than heaven**  
 **And hotter than hell"**  
—DRUMMING, FLORENCE + THE MACHINE

_Oh, for Andraste's sake_.

How does he always manage to get wounded? He's not _clumsy_. He's... well, _alright_ , he's not _that_ clumsy, perhaps slower than he should be, but there's no helping it when your partner just so happens to be _Cullen Rutherford_ , a year younger and already so much _better_. Alistair often wonders how he grew to be such an amazing warrior, all that strong build turned feral grace when his grip tightens around the pommel of a sword, and he spars effortlessly, a worthy opponent Alistair—or anyone for that matter, especially _Carroll_ —can't ever seem to outrank. He's at a disadvantage. He's not as diligent as he is, for one, however much he enjoys the training, and there's that _thing_ , where Cullen's concerned, that thing that doesn't have a name, and it's been particularly potent in the past few months, a distraction he knows he shouldn't indulge.

_But he does_.

"Theirin!"

Cullen rushes to him as Alistair palms his flank, slouched on the ground and waving, _I'm alright_ , a sign Cullen doesn't bother to acknowledge. He bends quickly, _crouches_ , removing his gloves and discarding his shield, looking him over with clear concern in his eyes.

"It's just a scratch," Alistair winces, but it's a little more than that and he hisses as Cullen frowns, his gaze riveted on the small, crimson stain across his lower ribs.

"I'm sorry," Cullen shakes his head, hands restless and hovering over him, _as though he doesn't know what to do with them_ , and the anguish creasing his brows causes Alistair's breath to shorten, tighter, _in his chest_ , or perhaps it's just the sting of his wound sparking his senses. "I should have anticipated your riposte. I don't know what came over me, I was..."

Distracted?

Their eyes meet, and Alistair swallows.

" _W-Well_ , you've always bested _me_ during spars... it's nothing unusual."

" _This_ is," Cullen grimaces, swatting his hand away and leaning in, clearly displeased at the sight of blood. "I've never hurt you before, nor have I ever wished to. This is my fault, I—"

"I ate too much," Alistair offers with a shrug, and Cullen frowns again, _puzzled_ , earning himself a laugh that merely chafes Alistair's throat, _too tight_ , the broad shape of his friend towering over him making him want to lurch forward _and_ recoil, _all at the same time_.

Instead, he remains stiff as a broom.

"It slowed me down," he goes on, twitching involuntarily at the brush of Cullen's fingers against stained fabric. "You _did_ call me a glutton, you know. I guess you weren't wrong."

"Remove your shirt."

"You— _what_?"

"Your shirt, Alistair," Cullen repeats, gaze evading his as he pulls at the cotton, and Alistair's brain stupidly screams _yes_. "Let me take a better look at your wound."

_Slow down, brain_.

"Oh, I... right, of course, I think I can do that."

His skin flushes faster than he can ponder _why_ , and he coughs as Cullen averts his eyes, the same reddish warmth across his cheeks. _Warmth_. He definitely feels it, despite the breeze teasing his flesh, and he shrugs his shirt over his head and he chuckles, _like a fool_ , more self-conscious than he should be when Cullen's gaze swivels back to him, one eye, _two_ , and a pair of supple lips part on a strained sigh.

"I, uh..."

He's not even sure _who_ speaks first, or perhaps they both do, and he feels heat on his face, covering his ears as Cullen leans in close, and he fears he might catch the rise of his chest, bare now, _too fast_ , a light buzz in the back of his skull. Cullen seems entirely _too_ focused as he bows his head and squints and oh, Maker, _he's touching him_ , his hand warm across his skin, so gentle, so _soft_ , nowhere near the kind of touch one would expect from a _warrior_ , and Alistair _reels_ , jaw clenched on sounds bubbling wild in his throat.

"Does it hurt?" Cullen asks, barely a whisper as he trails his fingers around the wound, and Alistair nods, back and forth and left and right, the brush of knuckles upon his skin causing his toes to curl and his heart to pound.

There's only one problem—or _many_ , if the shivers running down his spine are any indication. It's not _entirely_ pounding where it _should_ , and there's a gasp in the air, lost between them, Cullen's arm brushing over _something_ he definitely shouldn't have _felt,_ and heads snap up and eyes collide, and Alistair holds his breath.

"Alistair," Cullen mouths, and it sounds like a question _and he doesn't have an answer_ , but he loves the sound of his name on his tongue.

He's always loved his voice, soothing, low, _suave_ , and he knows he shouldn't think these things about him _but he can't help it_ , just like he can't help the strangled whine flowing past his lips as Cullen's fingers move farther up, his touch warm and feathery along the firm lines of his muscles. There's a flask on the bench next to them, filled with salve, and if his mind is half-tempted to reach out and grab it, the rest of him doesn't care.

"Does it hurt?" Cullen asks again, and Alistair nods, slow, braced on his elbows and feeling like a prey with his friend looming over him, and he thinks, _foolishly_ , that he wouldn't mind being _caught_.

_So cheesy_.

He nearly winces at his own train of thoughts, yet Cullen manages to clear his head, or to _fog_ it, rather, shifting closer, _prowling_ , fingers hesitant over his skin, _please don't stop touching me_ , and he doesn't, the brush of his hand melting into the hint of a caress.

"Here?"

His hand glides up the side of his torso, following the contour of his ribs, so painfully _slow_ Alistair struggles to avoid bucking up against him. He doesn't hurt anymore, and the wound's stopped bleeding, so he breathes, a sharp intake of air as Cullen pursues his exploration, pausing every now and then to ask _where_ he hurts, and Alistair stupidly nods every time.

His hand is so far from his cut he should be _embarrassed_ , but Cullen shows the sort of composure he usually reserves for battle, flushed but there, _willing_ , and Alistair arches under his touch. _His nipples are so damned hard_. He tries to blame it on the cold, a nervous laugh in his throat, and Cullen's finger smoothes over the sensitive bud _and he stops laughing_ , a tentative stroke that causes the both of them to _hum_ , a broken sigh clouding the drowsy stare they share.

He wishes he knew what kind of game they played, although he doesn't think they're playing _at all_. Cullen holds his gaze with the sort of intensity Alistair's rarely seen in his eyes, usually avoiding his whenever _this_ happens, too much warmth and not enough proximity, a barrier he feels could be crossed, if dread didn't coil in his stomach. He barely feels it now, Cullen's touch uncertain but _steady_ , and his breath hitches the moment Alistair touches him back, trailing his own fingers along the outline of muscles running up his forearm.

"Cullen," he trembles, his name foreign but oh so delightful, and Cullen shivers with him, inches from his face now and half-sprawled over his body, lashes lowering as his eyes drift to his mouth.

_Maker's breath_.

He tries to swallow but his throat is _too dry_ , so he simply stares, his heart loud in his temples as he cranes his neck and lazily pushes himself up, _eyes and lips, eyes and lips_ , and he feels his breath on his skin and he feels like _dying_. A blissful death, to be sure, his mind spiking in a thousand directions, his loins needing only _one_ , and Cullen's fingers brush against his jaw and _he mewls_ , eyes wide open and riveted on his lips.

He doesn't know why people close their eyes when they kiss, because _he_ definitely can't stop looking.

He'd never have stopped, if Cullen hadn't somehow _lost_ his balance, wavering and hitting his head against the bench, flask knocked over, and he wavers backward and he coughs, an abrupt dive into reality.

What in the blasted _void_ has just happened?

... and what _hasn't_?

"I, uh..."

_Again_ , spoken in unison, and Cullen rubs at the back of his neck while Alistair bends hunched over his lap, the whole of him redder than... _something really red_.

"You should... the salve, it's..."

"Yes, the salve, definitely the salve, I..."

"...should go."

_Don't go_. But he goes, a glint of despair Alistair manages to catch in his eyes, just before he _runs_ , and now seems as good a time as any to indulge in a cold shower.

There's something going on, tense, sweet, _between them_ , something neither of them have ever dared to speak of, and he isn't sure whether he should. He knows what he feels—he _thinks_ he does, clearer as time passes, closer to the crucial moment where he'll have to _leave_ , and he doesn't want to.

Odd, really, when he never wanted to be here in the first place.

The thought lingers in the back of his mind as he shoves back to his feet and grabs his shirt, _the flask_ , a wound that Cullen's touch seems to have already healed. It's cheesy at best, but it lightens his heart, heavier whenever he thinks of a future without him, and he turns on his heels, dragging himself back to their quarters.

Dim lights welcome him once he steps inside the monastery, and when the door closes behind him, Cullen's gaze bores into it, forlorn, the same strain crowding his chest. It's a sidelong glance Alistair never catches, often riveted on him, when he's not looking, and it lingers through all the obstacles inbetween, because he's always seem him beyond what his eyes could reach.


	6. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 6

**9:29 DRAGON || GUARDIAN  
ALISTAIR**

**_" Often these days and always these nights_  
I find I'm afraid of the turbulent heights  
No matter how crazily, no matter how far  
The moments of tenderness are those where you are "** ****  
—THE PANIC IN ME, ELTON JOHN

Duncan, she called him. _The Revered Mother_. He doesn't remember ever seeing her smile, but the scowl she's sported ever since the arrival of the Grey Wardens is alarmingly _cold_ , even for her. It's difficult to understand _why_ , when they've shown nothing but cordiality. She never liked anyone meddling in her affairs, and he suspects it's exactly what bothers her— _her_ , and the Grand Cleric, whose grasp on Templars is now openly compromised. Ferelden has always danced to the Chantry's chant. The Grand Cleric has held the reins with an iron fist for so long, and now she's _threatened_ , by a simple man who shouldn't have power over her. But he _does_ , and the Right of Conscription hangs uneasy over the monastery. Duncan made it clear that he wasn't above overstaying his welcome, if necessary—he came here looking for recruits, and he won't leave empty-handed.

It feels odd, being among them. They seem to... like him. They laugh with him. _Joke_ with him, and when he inevitably shoves his foot into his mouth—sometimes _both_ —they laugh again, never _at_ him, and he can tell from the puzzled glances his fellow Chantry comrades cast him that they don't understand the appeal. _His_ appeal. He could get used to this. He's already imagined what a future with them might be like, a noble cause, if a trifle _ominous_. He was never meant for a pious life. He's enjoyed the training, of course. The lessons. Even the discipline, but the Grey Wardens promise the kind of adventure and freedom the Chantry will never allow, and if he had a choice, he would leave with them. It's a half-truth, like many others. Because if he had a choice... well. He wouldn't leave alone.

They almost feel like home. _Almost_ , because it's not what they are, not exactly. He already knows what home feels like, and it sits nearby on a bench, propped against a sword that seems too heavy for what he can afford to lift. Cullen's been sick since the night before. He looks positively feverish, with his head hanging low between hunched shoulders, damp curls clinging to his forehead as his grip trembles around the pommel of his blade. Alistair would sit by him, if he dared. To comfort him. To dab his exposed skin with a cool piece of cloth, and fan his fingers across his back, an onslaught of questionable jokes in the hopes of coaxing a smile.

_He misses his smile_. He hasn't seen much of him at all, lately, and he remembers his touch as if it were yesterday. There's a barrier now, between them, and Alistair isn't sure how to breach the walls Cullen's built around himself. It wavers, sometimes. Just enough to unshackle flashes of their usual camaraderie, extensions of each other, and they laugh and they grin and they beam, until one of them stares too long and Cullen forces his mask back on, and his walls rise again.

He doesn't know why he's distanced himself. Is he scared? Like _he_ is, of everything that's transpired between them, ever since they were boys, things that never had a name, until they bloomed and filled him whole, and he wonders if Cullen feels the same.

Perhaps he's fooling himself. _This_ is Cullen's dream, _here_ , and he's so close to achieving his goal. It would be wrong to hinder him with questions he wishes to ask, with emotions he wishes to confess, but he's never felt anything like _this_ , and he knows it'll follow him wherever he goes. He doesn't want to _go_. Their time is counted, and every day proves a little harder to breathe, closer to that moment where he'll walk without him. There is no room for _this_ in a Templar's life. It's frowned upon and he understands Cullen's reticence, but it weighs on him and he dreams of him, every night, dreams he shouldn't have, not _here_ , with his hand around his shaft, and dreams of what could be, and he wakes with his heart in his throat.

There is no room for this in a Templar's life, and he fears it might have been nothing but a fantasy, to think that he had any in Cullen's.

Will he miss him, once he's gone?

"Rutherford!"

The sound of Cullen's name snaps him out of his somber daze, and he looks up from his own bench, just in time to catch Cullen's stance falter. He wobbles before he even stands, and the Knight-Commander is on him in a fraction of a second, steadying him.

"I can fight," he grumbles, and Alistair rises to his feet, taking a step in his direction.

It's always been this way. Even knowing they should avoid each other, he can't ever bring himself to stay away.

"I won't see you needlessly wounded today, Rutherford," the Knight-Commander grabs his sword, a sweep of his arm towards the sparring ground. "The Tournament will go on without you; it wasn't yours to win. Theirin?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander!" he straightens up, a few steps away from them.

"Help him back to his quarters, and—"

"No," Cullen cuts him off, _brisk_ , a sidelong glance towards him, and Alistair stills.

It's like a blow to his guts and it nearly knocks the air right out of him, but Cullen's gaze softens and he looks down, his frown equivocal when he stares up again.

"No," he repeats, softer, and there's hesitation in his eyes, but it's not enough to hide the vehemence in their depth. "Forgive me, Knight-Commander. I can't let him ruin his chances on my account. I'll walk."

_His chances_.

"Cullen...?"

"You've already impressed their leader," Cullen nods, a brief, encouraging twitch of his lips, because even now, even through his walls, he believes in him, and it's enough for Alistair to know that he shouldn't stop believing in _them_. "Victory's yours, if you wish it."

_If you wish it_ , and he realizes, as Cullen walks way, that it's all he needed to hear—perhaps it _is_ possible, somehow, to _choose_ , even when there doesn't seem to be any choice at all.

\---

"You fought well, Theirin."

Alistair's mouth freezes open, his spoon a mere inch from his lips, and he _stares_ , eyebrows quirked in disbelief as Carroll grins suspicious across the table. Sand still dusts his shirt, fresh cuts etched into the sinewed lines of his arms, and they don't itch anymore—if they do, he doesn't feel anything, his attention wholly focused on the man before him.

"You're not... _actually_ talking to me... _are you_."

"Do you know any other Theirin?"

_As a matter of fact, yes, and he's... you knooow, your King_ , but he doesn't say anything—it's not the sort of _foot_ he's willing to shove into his mouth, especially not where Carroll's concerned—and he frowns harder, his arm lowering until his spoon hits the plate, crumbs of cheese rolling out of its confines. He's been here nearly _ten years_ , and never _once_ has Carroll complimented him. He's probably never complimented _anyone_ , aside from himself, and Alistair scans the room in confusion, fingers loose around the utensil.

_It reeks of dishonesty_.

Truth be told, he _did_ fight well. Some may have deemed his performance nothing more than middling, yet he stood proud against both Ser Eryhn and Ser Talrew, acclaimed Templars that very few could outplay. He bears the marks of their spar on his skin, bruised in places he didn't know could sting so much, and even though he fell, even though he _yielded_ , accepting defeat like a warrior _should_ , he gave everything he had, and when he shoved back to his feet, Duncan's keen gaze was riveted on _him_.

It's the same gaze he offers _now_ , his back against the farthest wall of the kitchens beside the Knight-Commander, and Alistair's eyes narrow drastically, the glance he shoots Carroll openly accusatory.

"Oh, I get it," his lips press into a thin line, a click of his tongue before he sighs and shakes his head. "Trying to fall into his good graces, are you. You almost had me fooled, you know. For a moment. I don't think it'll work on a Grey Warden, though. Kissing arse will only get you so far."

Carroll blinks, seemingly caught-off guard, but it doesn't last, arms crossed atop the table—he leans in, a sneer twisting his face, and Alistair glowers.

"You'd know, wouldn't you," he all but snickers, and Alistair's grip tightens around the spoon—Carroll doesn't need to name anyone, Alistair knows exactly of whom he speaks, and of _what_.

"Really, Carroll. What _is_ your problem?"

"You are," he snorts, a roll of his eyes, and Alistair exhales harsh through his nose.

"Why? Because I'm a bastard? Because _he_ befriended _me_? Is that what bothers you?"

"Rutherford? Ha! Why would _that_ bother me? I already have all the friends I need."

"Do you? Do you even know what friendship _means_. Because I'm telling you now, it doesn't have anything to do with the bawdy remarks you spew at the expense of those you like less in order to amuse the ones you like _more_. Who here even _has_   your back?"

This seems to give him pause, and he leans back into his seat, considering him with an uneasy frown creasing his face. Alistair's irritation is palpable in the air about them, a rare occurrence, and if Carroll hesitates for a moment, he jeers anew in the next.

"Don't delude yourself, Theirin," he scoffs, a trifle louder than what should be necessary—it's borderline forced, his disquiet veiled behind his scorn. "You think he befriended you? You just happened to be the only one willing to bend ov—"

"No," Alistair stands, swift, _abrupt_ , spoon and plate clanking with the motion, and he lifts his arm and he points at him, his voice gruff from restrained fury. "You don't get to tarnish his name. He never wronged anyone here, not even _you_ , and Maker knows you'd have deserved it."

"Quick to defend him, aren't you? Why don't you go and join him. I hear he's already in bed."

His arm falls to his side, stiffened fists as he grits his teeth, and he _huffs_ , his chest full and his head as well, because _this_ , Carroll's allusions and his own fears, it all blends together, and he's so weary of having to withhold what he feels.

"You know what, Carroll," he glares, brows tightened with the same grief that's lodged in his throat. "Even if it _was_ true, even if we... _caboodled_... what would it matter? You speak of it the same way you speak of filth... and maybe it's what it is, to _you_. Don't think I don't know about your own little experiments though. I _do_ , and it's not what _he_ is, or _would_ be, not to _me_. Is your head so far up your arse that you can't fathom loving a man other than yourself?"

The words whisk fierce out of his mouth and he _shakes_ , both from dread and from ire, and a hint of something else, _awareness_ , soft around his heart and wild in the back of his skull. Carroll simply stares, blank, a rather novel expression for him, and Alistair's jaw clenches on an overflow of emotions he needs to unload _elsewhere_.

"Don't answer that," he doesn't give him a chance to answer, pushing the chair out of his way as he takes a step backward, ready to leave. "I doubt you even care to know what love is, and I don't think you ever will."

Silence's fallen around them; he barely notices, strides steady as he shoves himself into the hallway, shock and stupor in his wake.

_Love_. It's nothing he's ever said _aloud_ , and it rings in his ears and his steps falter, and he doesn't care that everyone heard him. He only cares that he's never told _Cullen_ , and he feels the pressure, behind his eyes, the back of his hands to rub the pain away, because even now, he doesn't know _how_.

It's hard to find the right words, when there is no right future, no _time_ , only barriers, and he feels so desperately gawky.

He drowns his grief in a quick bath, sore muscles shrouded in steam—he aches everywhere, but most of his pain, he finds, lies shivering on the bed next to his own. It's a bundle of torn sheets, a mass of blonde curls across a grey, moonlit pillow, and Alistair flinches in the doorway, damp strands of hair still teasing his nape. If he were younger, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd sneak into his bed, behind him, like they often did before, when nights grew colder, or when they fell from exhaustion. It didn't matter then, whether they touched, or how they did, and it shouldn't matter now and he misses _them_ , back when nothing was questioned. Things have changed. He _knows_. But why should _this_ be questioned, an extension of what they were, a _continuation_ , when it's only made his heart softer, his mind greater, and his time here, however undesired, marginally _better_?

Isn't _this_ the kind of things they glorify, here, in the same Chantry where intimacy is frowned upon? Isn't love what they _teach_ , yet make of its physical manifestations little more than the kind of lechery Carroll mocks?

_They are still who they were_ , and the thought guides him where he longs to be, his steps quiet as he reaches Cullen's bed. He wears only a pair of loose trousers, and when he slips under the covers, he stills behind him; there's only skin under his fingertips, poised over Cullen's side, and he won't dare explore lower.

"Hmm," Cullen moans half-asleep, and he shifts against him, Alistair's cheeks slightly warmer.

"It's... it's me," he whispers in his ear, braced on his elbow as he pulls the blankets over them both, giving Cullen enough time to recoil _or_ tell him to leave.

He does neither, nodding instead, and Alistair _breathes_ , carefully wrapping his body around his—if Cullen stiffens, he doesn't push him away, and he briefly cranes his neck and they _see_ each other, and he melts against him.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, keeping his voice low, and Cullen shakes his head, arching his back as if seeking more of him. "I saw you were shivering, and I... I thought I could..."

"We haven't shared a bed since we were boys," and Alistair feels the quiet smile in Cullen's voice, which he suspects might not actually be fully _aware_ —he breathes easy, interrupted by faint noises resembling _snores_ , and when his body shakes harder, wavering between dream and reality, Alistair needs to make sure he's not taking advantage.

"We? As in you and..."

"Alistair," Cullen sighs softly, snuggling up to him, and Alistair buries his nose in his curls.

"Alistair who?"

" _Theirin_."

"Alright, alright. No need to _growl_. I was just making... sure. That you _knew_."

"I wouldn't have let you in if I hadn't known it was you."

"Well, you _are_ feverish. _And_ half-asleep. Don't think I didn't hear you snore."

"I would know who you are anywhere, Alistair."

He's not quite certain it makes sense, but his heart doesn't care—it stirs and it beams, lower where his guts burn, and he holds him tighter and he shivers with him, a fever of his own. It's what's different now, he supposes. He's always cared for _him_. But he hasn't always cared for his scent, musk and elderflower, and a hint of something else, _him_ , or the way his skin slides smooth against his. He hasn't always cared for the feel of him, warm and soft and rough, rougher now, every curve and every line fitting his own. He hasn't always cared for the press of his arse, firm against his loins, or the caress of his calves intertwined with his own. Until he _did_ care, a slow process that soon bloomed into what he feels now, and when Cullen's fingers lower to brush over his knuckles, when they curl around his over his stomach and he _sighs_ , Alistair nuzzles the back of his head, pulling him close and wondering how he's still alive, with his heart everywhere _but_ where it should be, most of its shattered pieces pounding in Cullen's chest.

"Did you win?" Cullen yawns after a few moments of gentle silence, and Alistair shakes his head, distracted by the light touches of Cullen's hand over his.

Everything is so ridiculously easy, when there's no wall to impede their natural pace.

"No," he simply says, and his arm tingles, curled around and underneath him, and he doesn't care. "I fought well, though. You'd have been proud, I think."

"I always am."

"Well," he snorts, _inhales_ , and his throat feels a little tight. "I don't know about _that_. I could have done better. There's a huge crack on my shield now and... a hole in your sock."

"My sock? Alistair..."

"Yes, yes, I know. I wore your socks. _Again_. But look on the bright side! It brought me luck. Ser Eryhn taught me how to twirl a spear and I'm pretty sure not even _you_ can do _that_."

"Did it manage to catch the Grey Warden's attention?"

"Maybe. He looked at me, for what it's worth. Almost like he knew me. That was _odd_. I could teach you though, if you want. Before I..."

_Leave_. The word looms harsh in the space between them, acknowledged in sharp intakes of air and released in a slow sigh they breathe in unison. Cullen's fingers tighten around his own, and Alistair closes his eyes, a pang in his chest that he feels in the way Cullen curls in his arms, and he knows now, that they aren't boys any longer.

He doesn't say anything. The breeze wafts in from the open window, cool on Cullen's feverish skin, and Alistair listens to him, feels his chest rise uneven, slow and fast, inaudible mumblings as he struggles against sleep. It's a lost battle, and Alistair tells himself he'll stay a little longer, perhaps until the sun strikes the horizon. Long enough to be with him without causing trouble, the appearances of a dream, should Cullen wish to overlook this stolen, unfettered moment.

He hopes he won't.

"Don't," Alistair hears him say after a little while, his own eyes heavier.

"What?"

"Don't... leave," Cullen _definitely_ says, a drowsy whisper, and Alistair's head snaps up. "I wish we could..."

"Cullen?"

"...Rutherford."

"Yes, that's... that's you. You were about to say something else?"

"You're not a bastard."

"... _Well_ ," he can't help but chuckle, blinking in the dark as Cullen snores softly, and his pulse beats faster, his chin resting on Cullen's cheek. "That's debatable, I suppose. But _you_ are _not_ making any _sense_."

" _This_ is."

"What is?"

"You are. You... do."

"I... do? Make sense, you mean. _Well_. One of us has to, right? Are you trying to say that I usually _don't_?"

"You don't when... you're not with me."

Alistair's humor dims, swallowing hard on the lump he feels in the back of his throat.

"...Cullen?"

"Stay with me."

_Oh_.

"I'm... here," his jaw tightens, brows knit distressed as he dips forward and nuzzles the side of his face, the same words Cullen's once told him.

"You and I..."

_We make sense. Together_.

"I know," Alistair's lashes flutter low, and the simple truth of Cullen's somnolent confession causes his mind to give up the last of its strength.

He hugs him, as hard and as close as he can, his cheek moist against his as his lips brush over Cullen's light stubble. He hears him sigh, content and curled into his embrace, and there are so many things he wishes he could say. So many places he wishes he could be, with him, where _they_ could be possible.

He nods off instead, exhaustion taking over once his eyes stop watering and his dread fades lulled in Cullen's warmth, and he stays with him until the moon wanes, hollow where he aches the most. He won't risk catching him off-guard; he leaves his bed quietly, taking with him his scent and the feel of his body, and his touch as well, his skin still warm where he squeezed his hand, a phantom caress across his arm.

He doesn't sleep. He lies awake until the sun rises and Cullen rises with it, stifled groans as he rolls out of bed. Alistair doesn't dare open his eyes, but he _senses_ him, going slower through his usual routine. It stops being usual the moment he halts in the middle of the room, and Alistair feels his gaze on him, feels him shift on his feet with the sort of hesitation that plagues his own will every time he wishes to close the distance between them. _Theirin_ , he hears, and it's hard to remain silent, but he knows, if he opens his eyes, if he says _anything_ , that he'll miss what comes next.

It lands soft and gentle on the side of his face, a brush of knuckles across his cheek, and it lingers there on his skin as Alistair's lips part on a silent cry, half-hidden in the shadow of the grey clouds roaming the sky.

"Alistair," Cullen whispers, crouched beside him and watching him with the same tenderness he feels in his hair, fingertips warm across his temple. "Have I... dreamed all of this?"

His heart stirs at the anguish in his voice, the confusion, the hint of _hope_. It's too much, it's not _enough_ , and when Cullen drifts closer to rub his nose against the gruff of his jaw, his mouth briefly fluttering up his temple, Alistair feels the exact moment Cullen's walls rise again—a hitch in his breath, a strangled noise in his throat and a swift move _away_ , and his eyes water again.

Cullen leaves, too quickly, and Alistair _heaves_ , bolting up in his bed with his fists clutching the sheets, and he breathes too fast and he doesn't breathe enough, and his body shakes with the tears he tries to contain.

He needs to _try_. For his own sake. For theirs. To tell him, or to show him, somehow. Before it's too late.

And perhaps it already is.


	7. FIRST ACT || CHAPTER 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, originally known as the prompt fill that started it all over a year ago, marks the end of the First Act. A companion comic drawn by froschkuss @ tumblr will be available shortly (preview in the notes!). Thank you for being part of this extraordinary journey, and I hope you enjoyed the First Act as much as I enjoyed (re) writing it. I'll see you in the Second Act!

**9: 29 DRAGON || CLOUDREACH  
CULLEN**

**"** _The more I want the more I steal_  
The more I hold the less is real  
All worldly things I follow blind  
In hope not faith was paid in kind  
The line is drawn, the change is made  
I come to you, I'm not afraid"  
—WITHOUT QUESTION, ELTON JOHN

"... _O Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights, steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places_..."

Raspy notes seep into Cullen's ears as slumber fades, slow, languid, a muffled groan to halt the awareness creeping up his senses. The moon still glows, its light filtered through pulled curtains, and he thinks, distantly, that it's much too early for such a devout litany. Alistair thinks otherwise. He lies nearby, on the bed next to his own, and Cullen groans again, eyes cracked open—it's dark, but he sees, vision blurred, the steady rise of his chest and the muscles of his shoulder, taut and brisk, his arm jerked back and forth under the covers. _Perhaps a nightmare_ , he tells himself, but his blood catches on before his mind does and Alistair chants _louder_ , Cullen's breath swelling fragmented under the cadence of his friend's rhythmic sighs.

He grits his teeth, the bridge of his nose pinched between shaky fingers.

"Theirin," he hisses low, and his voice is full of interrupted dreams. "What are you _doing_?"

"Oh," Alistair stills, and he shifts and he pulls the covers, up, _fast_ , tucked under his chin. "Rutherford. You're awake. Of course you're awake, _now_ , when I..."

His voice trails off and there's a chuckle in his throat, causing Cullen's eyebrows to rise, the broad of his upper body braced on his elbow—if he manages to appear collected, he's everything _but_.

"I was, uh... praying."

"Praying."

" _Praying_."

"With your hand down your underclothes."

It's out of his mouth before he's even blinked and he nearly bites his tongue, wincing on a stifled curse. He's already indulged himself more than he should have. Moments of vulnerability, or so he tells himself, but he knows it's not what they were, what they've been, for _months_ , perhaps even years, the kind of strength that pulls at one's heart in the sweetest, most excruciating ways. The kind of strength he can't _afford_ , a gentle pain meant for men without armor, and Cullen's affections aren't his own; his devotion belonged to the Chantry before he knew his heart could beat differently, and it's too late now, to alter his loyalty.

It cracks every time he finds himself in his vicinity, and his face reddens a shade darker than Alistair's.

"Oh, was it where it was?" Alistair wiggles his fingers, feigning innocence, and it's clear in the flustered crease of his brows that he doesn't even believe himself. "I could have sworn it—"

"Maker's breath, Theirin," Cullen sighs, and he shakes his head and he rakes a hand through his curls, rolling out of bed on weakened knees. "You'll be taking your vows in a fortnight."

"I haven't told my hand. Maybe I should have."

"You haven't— _ugh_."

The wooden floor creaks under his weight, a wave of his hand to dismiss his friend, his _mind_ , and everything inbetween. Alistair, ever the jester. The sort of energy that lifts spirits and widens stubborn lips, but it's more than that, a façade Cullen's seen through many times over, and he wonders if he rattles his nerves, his _heart_ , as much as Alistair confounds his own.

"I've not sinned, have I," Alistair asks as Cullen bends over a small basin of cold water, splashing his face. "I mean—"

"No," he sighs again, and he feels uneasy, droplets of water running down his chin, his neck, crystal beads on his chest as he slowly turns around. "But if you can't resist the urge _now_ , what will you do once the thrill of the forbidden overtakes you?"

"Can you?"

"Can I... what?"

"Resist. The _urge_."

"I..."

He frowns, his mouth dry—he doesn't like where this conversation is going and he walks back to his bed, the air cool on his bare torso, a beeline back to safety.

_He shouldn't sleep naked_.

"I didn't see your name on the roster," Alistair goes on, and Cullen blanches, feeling his gaze on him and promptly pulling the blankets over his body. "You won't be taking them, will you? Your vows."

"No," he clears his throat—the glance he's shot him wavers askance. "I won't be taking such vows."

Alistair shifts on the mattress—he can _hear_ him, but he doesn't dare _look_ now, lying flat on his back and shielding his eyes with the breadth of his forearm.

"I've heard some of the boys. They've... experienced. To... ge... _ther_. Even Carroll. He bragged about it, y'know. Last thing I thought he'd ever say. Have you?"

"...Have I _what_?" he indulges him, a low groan as sweat blooms on his forehead.

"Have you... already... done... _it_ —"

"Maker _no_ , Theirin. This is ridiculous."

" _Will_ you?"

His arm moves of its own volition, swift, a fistful of fleecy feathers, and he throws the pillow, away, _hard_ , a blow to Alistair's face.

"You're delirious," he grouses, swallowing thick, but instead of silence, there's laughter ringing in his ears, a chant of snorts—his pillow's thrown right back at him, and he punches its torn shape under his cheek, face half-buried. "Go back to sleep."

"Tell that to my hand!"

" _THEIRIN_."

\---

Everything feels out of place. It's what he wanted. It's what he wants _still_ , and even though Alistair never had much of a choice, he knows they share similar aspirations, perhaps not the same kind of vocation, but the same wishes for a better world, and something's amiss. Alistair's appeared anxious, lately, no mask to hide his concerns, barely any jokes at all. Cullen doesn't really blame him. He'll soon be sent away for his Vigil and he'll take his vows, a full-fledged templar, and it nags at him, his memory, _I don't want to go back, Cullen_ , and he knows Alistair doesn't belong here and he knows that time has finally come, and he doesn't feel any more ready than Alistair seems to be.  

_I guess it's... alright if... if you're here. There, I mean. It would be a lot worse if you weren't_ , Alistair once told him. _I'm here_ , Cullen promptly reassured him, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. _I'm not going anywhere_. It's always been a half-truth, and it hurts now, because it can't last, and it's what causes Alistair to stall in their quarters when duty calls, to rub his eyes when nobody else can see, swift and brief, casting away the same fears Cullen still fails to conquer. He feels his turmoil, every time, and his chest stirs and his eyes sting and he looks away, and his throat closes on a question he doesn't know how to answer.

How can a man remain whole, when a part of him is meant to break away?

He tries not to think of his imminent departure. Of _him_. He can't afford to be selfish, not here, not ever. Soon his life won't be his own, and he'll serve, gladly, something much greater than he, much greater than all of them. He doesn't know whether he'll see Alistair again, and the uncertainty of it is like a wound that never heals—if he can ignore his thoughts, he can hardly ignore the beat in his chest. It grows heavier the moment he walks into their room, a haven that has seen them both growing into men, but it's not how he feels when darkness falls, when he watches him sleep, his own slumber out of reach. He feels like the boy who found reassurance in Alistair's presence, when he missed his family. He feels like the boy whose strength matched his, a partner who endured when he faltered, and vice versa, because even through occasional dissensions, they've always been a team, pillars for each other.

A part of each other.

He feels like the boy who warmed him when nights grew cold, huddled under shared blankets, the boy who smiled, _laughed_ , and groaned, sometimes, when exasperation took over. The boy who fought him with swords and pillows, who watched him become a man, and it's what they are now, a body he longs to feel, to _hold_ , like he once did, _differently_ , but with the same simplicity.

But he can't, and Alistair touches _himself_ , again, half-awake as muffled moans slip through parted lips. It's how he seems to wake, lately— _Cullen's noticed_ —as if clinging to dreams he wishes could linger, dreams he suspects have no place in a monastery. It's... distracting. It reminds him of his own temptations, and he hasn't taken care of himself in such a long time. _Duties first_. Even though he nearly faltered, once, and Alistair's response still makes his blood boil, both in shame and desire, and he wonders if he remembers. Is it what he dreams of? The arousal he sought to hide, in the bathing room, or perhaps his touch, when he accidentally wounded him?

_Does he dream of him_?

There's a sigh on his lips as his hand slips under the covers, mind clouded and fingers running down his abdomen. Alistair still prays in the bed next to his own, louder, and Cullen's _hard_ , shaft pulsing thick against his thigh.

_My creator, judge me whole, find me well within your grace, touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval—_

"Sweet Andraste," he mouthes, thumb circling the crown of his length, and he bites his lip, cupping himself in the crook of his palm.

He doesn't move, not yet, squeezing instead, feeling the beat of his heart in his hand, and Alistair breathes heavier beside him and Cullen clenches his jaw, a tentative thrust into his fist. _Maker's breath_. He's shaking. From need, from restraint, and his jaw _hurts_ , a whimper pushed through his nose as he runs his thumb over the head of his cock again, slick and swollen and smearing precum all over the taut sinews of his stomach. His legs spread, knees apart under the covers, and his back arches along with the strokes of his hand, lazy and firm, a languorous grip. He's nearly forgotten what it feels like, but he remembers now, encouraged by Alistair's throaty noises next to him, and his hips roll and his wrist does as well, toes curled in growing bliss.

"...Rutherford?"

Cullen groans in response, vaguely aware, and if his cadence slightly slows down, it never fully stops. Sweat pearls at his brow and he breathes through his nose, fingers tight around himself. Alistair clears his throat and his cock jerks at the sound of him, and he clamps down on his lip and he groans again, conflicted, aroused.

Frustrated.

"Are you awake?" Alistair asks, and he can hear the hesitation in his voice. "You seemed to be... talking. In your sleep."

"I wasn't sleeping," he sighs, low and hoarse, and he turns his head to face him, watching Alistair flush as their gazes meet. "Nor am I sleeping now."

"Are you...?"

He swallows, hard, his senses on fire and his thoughts muddled, and his grip loosens and he looks away, fingers trembling over his inner thigh.

"Yes," he croaks, and his cheeks redden, warm, warmer as Alistair chuckles coy, aroused as well.

"Because of me?"

He doesn't see his smile but he can _hear_ it, and it infuriates him, because it's not what he wants and it _is_ , but it's _more_ , and it can't be. He wants him and he shouldn't, beyond the warmth of his body, and with his erection twitching in need, he melts wanton as he feels Alistair's eyes on him, the stretch of his mouth and his expectancy.

His cock jerks again and he hisses, betrayed, his palm over his face.

"Y'know, we could—"

"Alistair."

"—braid each other's hair. What? Oh, you thought I was about to suggest something else, didn't you. You kinky b—"

"Come... here."

"...wait. What?"

He sighs, winces, _it's too late_ , and he doesn't know what he's doing and he doesn't want to _think_ , groaning fierce as he rolls onto his side, covers up.

"Come. _Here_."

Alistair swallows, a lump of uncertainty in his throat that Cullen feels, heavy, shortening his breath and causing his skin to tingle, cold and hot, fear in the back of his skull. He's gone too far. Alistair should be countering his malaise with a quip, a clumsy laugh or a stupid joke, but silence seems to be all he can afford and Cullen shrinks back into his own skin, _he shouldn't have said anything_ , friendship cracked and heart as well, and—

Oh. _Oh_. He comes, slow, bare, confusion creasing his face, and Cullen closes his eyes as Alistair slips under the blankets. He's warm, _he's so warm_ , and he holds his breath and he bites his tongue, careful not to touch him.

"I, uh..." And there's the laugh he was waiting for, shaky, shy, and he cracks an eye open and _he's so damned close_ , but it's _him_ , cheerful, timid, a lopsided smile curling his lips, and it almost feels natural.

It should be. It _used_ to be. Before his touch grew enticing, before his pulse jumped at the sight of him. Before it _stirred_ , when he imagined a world without him, when he was too far or when he was too close, before he knew that he was _more_. He knows now, the space between the beats of his heart, and his body craves him as much as his soul does, and he doesn't want his mind to interfere.

Not now. Not when he doesn't know whether he'll ever see him again.

"I didn't think you... would..."

"I've never..." Cullen looks up, lips pressed into a thin line, and he sighs, puffs of husky breath lost in Alistair's hair, causing him to blink. "I've never done..."

"Me neither, actually," Alistair shakes his head and shrugs, laughs again, but his face tightens and he's serious once more, curious and inching closer. "Just my hand. Do you..."

"I... don't know."

"I've... heard so many things in the barracks. It didn't sound complicated... but you know how it is, theory and practice. It's like holding a sword and a shield. It looks _easy_ , but when you spar for the first time, it's... ah. Um. I... I mean, I could... use my mouth, maybe—"

"Andraste's flaming knickers, _Theirin_ ," he nearly shrieks, his face crimson, and he leans in, pressing his palm over Alistair's mouth and glowering to cover his agitation, his _anticipation_ , but the vehemence of his glare doesn't amount to much. " _Leave your mouth out of this_."

"Fine, fine! No mouth," Alistair pushes his hand away, a mild glare of his own, and he looks down, fully immersing himself under the covers. "What if..."

Cullen's breath heaves out of his lungs—Alistair's touch is tentative along his length, and he stills, _trembles_ , his cock jerking so hard under the brush of his fingers he's afraid of scaring him away. He doesn't. Alistair hums instead, his grip stronger, and Cullen sighs and closes his eyes, his palm flat against the shoulder of his friend.

"Good?"

"Mhm..."

"Do you... I mean, would you like to... y'know..."

"Oh," Cullen nods, quick, and his skin burns, flushed and flustered as he reaches down. "I, uh, I'm sorry, I'll..."

_Touch him_. He does, and Alistair's shaft weighs odd and firm in his hand, smooth and rigid, not quite as long as his own but thicker, or so it feels like. He squeezes, hard, like he's squeezed his own, and he likes that Alistair moans in response, stifled, his lower body pulled closer.

It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like _anything_ he's ever known, and he doesn't know how to touch him and they reel together, shaking with the same need, the same impatience and the same fears, buried under unbridled desire. He can feel his breath on his face, warm, and there's a chuckle there, on his tongue as Cullen strokes him slightly faster—they thrust at the same time and his cock brushes against his own and he _hisses_ , a shiver running down his spine.

"Oh," Alistair clears his throat, an easy smile on his lips, and his eyes shine drowsy in the pale moonlight. "That... that was... _ohhhhh_..."

Cullen needs to feel him again, his _cock_ , pulsing against his own, and he guides him where he wants him, crown against crown, slippery, rubbing in slick circles. His breath catches in the back of his throat and he can feel Alistair's slow thrusts following the movement of his hand, and he _boils_ , ankles intertwined as he rubs their cocks together, panting harsh over his mouth.

"Are you... alright?" Cullen can't help it—he _needs_ to ask, concerned in the midst of his yearning—Alistair laughs again and it feels like it should, a smile they share and a breathy croak, and his hand closes over his to tighten his hold and he leads him faster, thick beads pearling out of his cock.

"Do you really need... to ask?" and Cullen blushes, impish now, and no, he supposes he doesn't.

He doesn't ask again—his eyes drop to his mouth instead, lids heavy, and it doesn't go unnoticed. Alistair leans in, nodding before he says anything, and Cullen nods in turn, dipping down and _mhm_ , his lips touch his and he stops moving, a hard _thump_ in his chest that deafens his senses.

He stills, time suspended, and Alistair blinks with the same awareness, lips hovering over lips as they stare befuddled. His blood simmers still, beyond his arousal, gathered where it aches, where it exults, loud against his ribcage. He sees him, _Alistair_ , his friend, his _everything_ , and they reach out simultaneously, fingertips across each other's  faces.

"Cullen," his name touches his skin in a thick whisper, a question that's been left unanswered for far too long.

He doesn't know how to answer it, even now, but he _understands_ and he hums along, lashes drooping low as Alistair nuzzles the tip of his nose, catching his sigh. He drifts towards him, against him, and he falls, warmth seeking warmth until lips brush against lips, once, twice, and they linger there, hovering in sweet agony. _Alistair_ , he thinks he says, and he must have, because Alistair nods, slow, lazy, breath heavier as their lips meet again, longer, a muffled sound in the back of his throat.

And everything changes.

Calloused fingers cup Alistair's face, pulling him closer, kissing him with the same kind of desperation his blood seems to know, wild in his veins. _It hurts_. It hurts because he's never felt this good before, and he doesn't know why they can't be. Alistair moans against him, _shivers_ , and Cullen's hand drops to his arm, his side, around his waist and soft against the small of his back, and it's not enough, because he wishes he could touch him everywhere, all at once, and he can't. Alistair's fingers are in his hair, twisted sharp, his body continuously pushing against his own as if trying to melt into him, and Cullen curls around his shape, a perfect fit. And this is it. He surrenders here, wrapped around him and giving him everything he has, everything he _is_ , lips avid against his, parted and eager, a note of urgency.

He begins moving again, his _hips_ , and they hold each other and they breathe together, and Cullen never wants this to end. He likes the feel of his body against his, the sharp pull of strong fingers in his hair. He likes the taste of him on his tongue, the smooth tease of his stubble against his own. He likes the hitch in his breath when he nibbles on his lower lip, and the groans grazing his throat when his mouth runs open in the crook of his neck. He likes the hardened warmth of his cock, pressed against his own, and in the midst of a rougher thrust, he longs for more.

He rolls atop him, pins him there underneath him—his cock finds his, squeezed tight and slick, and Cullen grinds, digging into him, back and forth as the bed creaks with the motions.

"Alistair," he pants into his mouth, tongue lazy around his—he wants him to know that he _knows_ , who he is, who they are, and what they're doing.

Because he wants this, _him_ , more than he's ever wanted anything, and in this stolen moment, he won't let anything else matter.

Alistair answers with a tighter hold, sweeter, and he pulls him close as their foreheads touch, undulating together in warm friction. The muscles of his thighs clench around him with every push, and Cullen moves with him, arms trembling as he caresses his face, peppered kisses across his cheeks, his nose, and languid across his lips, his pulse battering.

"Cullen," Alistair moans around his tongue, and he feels his cock growing impossibly harder.

"Am I... hurting you?"

"No, no... I... Nngh, _Maker's breath_. Is this... a good time to... recite the Chant?"

He tries to jest, but his chuckle dies in his throat and he _bucks up_ , Cullen responding fierce and groaning with him, grinding faster. He shakes his head—he's close. Desperately so.

"I'm—"

" _Don't stop_ , "Alistair heaves, and he grips his arse and he pulls him harder against him, thighs wide apart, encouraging him faster. Cullen obliges, quick and shallow thrusts as broken notes of desire reach his ears, and Alistair comes apart under him.

Cullen feels his cock twitch and spurt against his stomach, slick and warm and thick, and it slides easy, coated in his cum—he comes as well, long and hard, body taut above his as he moans raw, sated noises of pleasure weaved around Alistair's. He doesn't stop moving, even as his climax fades, and it's languorous, Alistair's hands warm on his back—he nuzzles him, _they nuzzle each other_ , and he gathers him closer, tighter in his arms, until his breath slows down and he opens his eyes again, freezing above him.

"Don't," Alistair shakes his head, because he caught the glint in his eyes, _uncertainty_ , and it has no place here now, not anymore. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and I... I don't know if I'll get another chance to see you. Ever."

"Alistair..."

"I don't know how to... or if I should... say, if I... Hmm. You... _do_ know. Don't you."

This. _Them_. Everything that's transpired since they were boys, everything it _means_ , and there's that pull in his chest again, sinking low as Cullen settles beside him, his face in his hair.

"I do," he all but murmurs, and his eyes sting as he closes them, his arm around his waist and his chest pressed to his back, Alistair's hand over his.

Silence falls, a sense of peace, however somber, and Alistair snuggles up to him as Cullen breathes him in.

"This is good. I've always wanted to be the little spoon."

Cullen snorts, marveling at how everything's falling back into place again, and he pulls him closer.

"You're delirious. _Again_. We should… sleep.”

Even though he doesn't want to, but his mind's already hazy, heavier, his breathing slow as they sigh together, the last time they'll ever know each other.

If he manages to fall asleep, perhaps _this_ will last forever.

"You'd be a good leader, Cullen," Alistair mumbles as slumber glides over them, and Cullen snorts again, half-aware. "If you didn't blush so easily."

"My blushing, as you put it, never kept me from outranking you during spars," he notes vaguely, and he yawns, distantly feeling the rumble shaking Alistair's shoulders.

"Aha, fair enough. You got me there."

_And you have all of me_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't, burying his face in his neck instead.

"Cullen?"

"Hmm?"

"You're a good man. Never let anyone make you believe otherwise. You... changed my life for the better. Nothing would have been the same here, without... without _you_. You'll do great things, one day. Once you leave this place."

He half-smiles, tightening his embrace, a knot in his chest. If only he knew just how much he's changed him as well, but this feels like farewell.

"So will you,.. Alistair.

He feels Alistair’s hand squeezing his own, a caress of his thumb across his skin, and he falls asleep with him, legs and fingers intertwined, his hold never loosening.

He doesn't know that Alistair won't ever make it to the Circle. He doesn't know of the man lingering in the barracks still, waiting for him, a _Warden_ , strong and fatherly, about to change his destiny. He doesn't know that they'll meet again, demons looming close, and when he wakes, he finds Alistair's note on his night table, and the room still smells of him.

" _May we meet again, Cullen, and may the Maker watch over you. Know that no matter where I go, you'll always be with me._

_—Alistair_."

"So will you," he whispers, the same parting words he's uttered the night before, but they're frazzled now, tight in his chest, in his throat, and watery in his eyes.

He looks up, and silhouettes fade on the horizon—he sees them through the window, a group of men, and among them stands Alistair. He can't see his face from here, but he feels him, and when his palm reaches up to his chest, he knows he'll never forget him.

He knows they’ll never forget each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. 9:30 DRAGON || THE BLIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SECOND ACT || Chapter 8.
> 
> Blood. Death. Darkspawn. And in the midst of it all, Alistair finds a new family, new _friends_ , reflecting on his past and missing the part of him he always considered home; Cullen. It's a small world, despite how wide and far the Blight reaches, and Solona Amell reminisces with him, making him feel a little closer, despite the distance, to the man he can't forget.

**9: 30  DRAGON || THE BLIGHT  
ALISTAIR**

**"WE'RE JUST A MESS OF MOMENTS**  
THAT'S ADDING UP TO WHERE WE ARE  
AND YOU'RE THE FRAME AND FOCUS  
THAT'S MAKING SENSE OF IT SO FAR  
****  
—FRAME AND FOCUS, LIGHTS

_You know... one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together..._

It's how he gives himself away. It's what she tells him, a few days later. One phrase, before he even acknowledges her, otherwise occupied with a mage whose identity he never caught—a pity, really, when he was going to name one of his children after him. _The grumpy one_. It's easy to jest, in the midst of chaos. Too easy. As simple as it is to _breathe_ , with half of his heart beating in someone else's chest. He's aware. He's always been, aware of his surroundings, _of everything_ , and it's become second nature to him, to _joke_ , a deflection that's served him well. It distracts, but it reassures as well, and it's how he copes, brightening his way through the turmoil looming over them, _inside him_ , and so long as none can catch the hitch in his breath, sometimes he even manages to fool himself.

Solona knows who he is before he so much as glances her way. His name is somewhat of a hallmark on its own, apparently—she _was_ supposed to find a man named Alistair _here_ , but having spent most of her life in a Tower makes it difficult to gauge just how many Alistairs there _are_. Out _there_. His name isn't the sole reason why she recognizes him, or even the main one. _He_ is. Lively. Kind. Witty. She's heard of him before, and _of course_ she has; Duncan must have mentioned him—she wouldn't be here otherwise—but the attributes she uses to define what she knows of him definitely aren't anything _Duncan_ would have said.

She doesn't ask whether he's Alistair, or if he's a Grey Warden. She doesn't even allude to Duncan. She goes right for the kill instead, and knocks him down with a feather.

_You're Cullen's Alistair, aren't you?_ she grins at his quirked brow _,_ and when he blanches, when he blinks confused and feels his pulse behind his eyes, she smiles, giggling in unison with the quick dips of his head.

_You're exactly as he described you... and you exude the same radiance now that he did, whenever he spoke of you_.

There _is_ a hitch in his breath—he knows that she notices, and he lets her.

It's not something he can easily hide, or anything he wishes to. He misses him, and that's the truth of it. The only truth. Half a year, and it feels like an age. It never did before. Time never dragged on, back at the Monastery, and Maker knows it could have stretched out without end. Reasons hadn't lacked—time had simply slipped away when it should have abounded, but doesn't it always, when one's desire is to make it last?

Hearing of Cullen now... it brings him back where his heart still lingers, years of friendship set alight in a night of passion, and if he wondered, for a time, whether Cullen would remember him as he does, he doesn't any longer.

_He worked dutifully_ , she tells him. He didn't seem unhappy—which is a relief on its own, seeing as he finally lived his dream—yet his eyes never shone as bright as they did when he spoke of Alistair. Fondness. Longing. It made her smile and it made her sigh, and when she smiled too much he looked away, as if caught with his robe down. _That_ made her laugh, and when she mentions the same blush on Alistair's cheeks, the same sweet tremor in his voice, she tells him, _I understand the extent of what Cullen strove to downplay_ , and Alistair still wonders why he had to be sent away.

The answer comes under many guises—death, for the most part, and it seems unfair, to fight for a world that has done so little for them.

He's hardly ever deterred, however, idealistic, good _and_ quick-humored, cracking jokes faster than she can catch her breath. It only falters once they leave Ostagar, death in their wake, _again_ , but even then, it's never fully gone. It's something Cullen admired about him, Solona confesses, an inspiration to witness such strength in the midst of what could have easily bred bitterness.

_He was... the best part of me_ , Cullen told her once, after she caught him writing what she thought might have been _poetry_ , and Alistair's chest tightens with the admission, a shaky breath on his lips and his gaze riveted on the horizon.

How will he ever tell Cullen now, that _he_ helped shape the best of himself?

\---

_If there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello._

Desperation wears many masks. The veil of an apostate, who knows at least _fifteen_ different poisons that grow in the marsh. The pretence of a bard, who not only enjoys music but also _hears_ the voice of the Maker. The air of a giant Qunari, caged _and_ freed, despite murderous tendencies. The aspect of a foul-mouthed dwarf who drinks a trifle too much... and the cloak of an assassin, who miserably fails at doing what he does. Solona welcomes him regardless, as she welcomed the others, and Alistair suspects there'll be _more_ , because the truth never fails to emerge barefaced.

They _are_ desperate.

Beggars can't be choosers. The situation is dire, more than he expected when he joined the Grey Wardens, more than he's ever thought possible. How does anyone ever fully prepare for this? No tale ever did justice to the horrors he now witnesses firsthand, and the blood on his hands spills not only from beasts, but from men as well. Men like _him_ , born the same, children once—it's hard to imagine, how anyone could ever stray so far, twisted shades in their eyes, and he wonders, sometimes, if the end always justifies the means.

There's a war brewing. _Civil_ war _,_ as if the Blight wasn't enough. Rumors roam faster than Darkspawn, hearsay and defamation, and he doesn't particularly like where they go, or _how_ they go. Damage splatters in Loghain's wake, and Duncan comes to mind, every time. He should have been there, with both he and Cailan, on the battlefield. He catches himself at times, pondering why the King kept him at bay, a trivial task that ultimately served no one. Did he try to protect him? Somehow, even though they never really knew each other? The thought always lingers, somewhere in the back of his skull, and when he feels his heart still beating, he's grateful to be alive.

Even in spite of all the things they've left behind—or perhaps it is _because_ of them, that he feels the way he does.

He realizes now just how little the Chantry actually taught them. There's so much more than the Maker, if He even exists. Leliana swears by Him, but He's certainly made Himself scarce, lately. Especially when He's needed. They've stumbled upon Dalish elves, just a few days ago. There's a strange plague imperiling their clan, turning men and women into _werewolves_ , and Alistair's never felt so sheltered in his entire life.

This... _all_ of this... is so different from what he used to know.

But there's one thing that doesn't change.

He thought it might, if he dares to be honest. He searched his heart, when he joined the Grey Wardens, and he searched it further once he left Ostagar. His home, before his journey began, wore blond curls and a quiet smile, and now, with a family he never imagined he'd ever have, with _friends_ , it's almost inevitable to ponder the depth of what once were. He feared it would stay there, past tense, itching like a fresh scar. Could he have loved Cullen simply because he'd been the only one to care?

It's something he's questioned a few times—enough to expunge his fears, but not so much as to indicate a sign of _doubt_. Leliana often teases him. He doesn't possess any magic of his own, but if he did, if he _knew_ magic, it'd probably feel like her songs. It's especially potent when she sings of love, and he knows she sings for him, when he pretends to be out of earshot, and her voice reaches _deep_ and it reverberates, an echo in his memories. Unbreakable bonds. Soul mates. She smiles and he snorts, because even _he_ isn't that cheesy, but when he lies still at night and rests his palm over his heart, he doesn't just _want_ to believe her. He _does_.

Because there's a tale untold that stirs with every beat, and only he, _Cullen_ , can sing its verses.

\---

They travel light, and fast. It never seems fast enough, yet it feels lighter than it should. _In war, victory_. It's his motto. But victory demands sacrifices, and they aren't always dealt in _death_. It's more, and it's less; sometimes it's _everything_ , and if home is where the heart is, during a _Blight_ , home is on the road.

But even the roads seem foreign. Ferelden bathes in blood, and whatever lies ahead of them is anyone's guess.

Solona leaves her tent one night, when sleep eludes her. It's difficult to rest in the middle of nowhere, threats coming from every side, from _inside_ , when they can't shut their minds, when dreams howl louder than foes. He half-expects her to sneak inside Leliana's tent—they've grown closer since their adventures began—but she comes to him instead, eyeing the spear lodged in the earth beside him. It's how he distracts himself, twirling his pike and blowing off steam he can't seem to release otherwise, though he always waits for the moon to rise now, escaping unwanted attention.

_Ahhh, Alistair. He seems to have quite a good grip, no_?

_That_ kind of attention, doubled with allusions to _the muscled planes of his chest_ , or _the rivulets of sweat running down his torso_. It's not anything he wants to hear, and he especially doesn't want to feel Zevran's gaze on him, but he's nowhere to be seen now, and Solona comes closer as he nurses a fresh wound on the side of his face. He's been watching the flames of the campfire dance for hours, Barkspawn poised beside him with her head rested on his shoulder and three pairs of _socks_ lying in his lap. Solona smiles at the sight of them—mainly the dog, he assumes—and she sits next to him as he smears a smudge of elfroot salve on his cheek.

"You're just the right amount of adorable I needed to witness today," she says, mouth stretched cheeky, and he knows she suffers from the same tainted nightmares he does, despite her smug tendencies.

He's much too familiar with this sort of antics for her to be able to ever fool him, but that doesn't stop him from playing along.

"Adorable?" he gasps, feigning outrage as Barkspawn gives a little whine. "Ouch. Just what we were aiming for... You know, you could just stab us in the face first before you say something like that."

"It seems it's already been taken care of."

"Oho, and here I thought it'd make me look _savage_ ," he taps his cheek, his shoulders shaking on a soundless laugh. "But nooo, you're just wounding my pride... I'm better usually _I swear_."

"I've certainly seen greater performances," she agrees, a grin as she tips her head lower, and it fades when she spots the socks.

She doesn't ask him why he's half-holding, half-fondling them, whether they need stitching or cleaning. She asks him if it _hurts_ , and he feels the sting on his cheek, but it's not what she refers to and the question weighs heavier than it should.

He smiles wistful, and Barkspawn lays her head where the socks are, nuzzling them.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll live, don't you worry."

If he stands with half of his heart beating miles away from here, there's nothing he can't endure, but his answer doesn't satisfy her. She scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder, because she clearly hears something different.

"They're his, aren't they?"

He doesn't look up; his smile widens instead, forlorn, and he sighs through a brief chuckle.

"They might as well be. He... sent them to me. A full crate, in fact, three months after I joined the Grey Wardens. He even had my name sewed onto them... I used to wear his socks, you know. Or _steal_ them anyhow. That's what _he'd_ tell you, but I've only ever _borrowed_ them. Permanently sometimes, I _guess_ , but that's... Well. I used to do many things I probably shouldn't have _done_ , actually, and..."

His voice trails off, eyebrows pinched as he laughs broken, and he clears his throat, where too many memories are wrung.

"I'm not sure how he... found me," he goes on, shaking his head in lingering disbelief, in _joy_ , but it's a little hard to discern, underneath the wave of sadness that crashes over him. "There wasn't any note, but I just _knew_ it was him. After the night we... after I _left_ , I didn't think I'd hear from him again. We both led new lives and walked different paths, and I didn't think there could still be... _room_ , for me. Being a Templar... _well_ , relations of any kind aren't exactly encouraged, and I know how seriously he's always taken his duties. I wouldn't have blamed him if he... if he'd _forgotten_ about me, I—"

"You never left him, Alistair," she cuts him off, her hand on his arm, and he gazes up and he sees her, distorted on the brim of his eyes. "He spoke of you all the time once he trusted me enough, after I started flirting with him—"

"You... _flirted_ with him?"

"Oh, don't look so scandalized! Of course I did. I mean... have you _seen_ the man? We all wanted to be his charges, but he made it very clear that his heart was already taken. He didn't say it like that, mind you. He babbled about decency and appropriate behaviors and a lot of other things I don't remember because I stopped listening. But when he started talking about a friend of his, and after I had a glimpse of the things he wrote when he thought nobody was looking, it was easy to connect the dots. He was always a bit reserved, but it was obvious how much you meant to him. I may have known you both separately, Alistair, but I've never seen you apart."

He stares, _blinks_ , nostrils flaring as his eyes widen, and he sniffles and he chuckles, covering her hand with his own—it's as much an affectionate gesture as it is one of reassurance, for _himself_ , because if he doesn't lean against her, he feels as though his pounding pulse might cause him to faint.

He coughs for good measure, doing his best to keep his composure.

"My influence on you is starting to show, my lady," he manages to say, and his voice sounds much more strained than he wishes it did. "You should run while you still can... before Morrigan blames me and sets me on fire."

"For being a romantic at heart?"

" _Well_... I'm not suuure she'd call it _that_ , but..."

"And _that's_ why Barkspawn keeps hiding putrid hares in her belongings. Isn't that right, girl?"

She barks, happy, and Alistair laughs, _lighter_ , because Barkspawn is undeniably the best dog in the entire world. If only it was enough to soothe his affliction. He sighs again, after a moment, his gaze fixed on the flames.

"Cullen and Duncan... they were the only family I've ever had. Not that _you_ aren't. I like you, you know that. You're a good friend. I just can't believe I've... lost them both. I know I shouldn't dwell on it, but I... everything I've ever had, it..."

"Your memory of Duncan will live on, Alistair."

"I know. I'm sorry. I've whined enough about... all of this. I won't forget him."

"And you haven't lost _Cullen_."

She leans in, reaching out to place her hand over his heart—he feels his pulse against her palm, slow but strong, _thump, thump_ , as if struggling to beat, and yet it quakes triumphant, a fierce whisper in every thud.

_I won't be defeated_.

"He's here," she smiles, and he smiles as well, _because it's true_ , a mixture of melancholy and delight.

"He's here," he merely repeats, and despite the way he looks now, all chiseled lines and hard shapes, he feels like a boy and oh, _Maker_ , how he misses him.

It's hard to think of war, _here_ , in the midst of love, and it clashes and it flashes, _in her eyes_ , and she jolts with the force of it.

Barkspawn lifts her head as Solona's pupils widen, and the shriek that escapes her lips causes the dog to bark.

"Mages!"

Of all the things she could have said then, _mages_ certainly isn't one that would naturally come to mind. There's something in her gaze, a spark, and the change in her posture is so abrupt he can't make head or tail of it.

"What?" he asks, puzzled. "Where? You don't mean... Morrigan, do you? Please don't wake her up, there's only so much—"

"No!" she grabs his arm with both hands, shaking him, and she fidgets and he fidgets with her, _what_ , _what!_ , and _woof!_ , and her nose bumps against his. " _Mages_."

"Have you... hit your head while I wasn't looking? Because—"

"The Tower, Alistair!" she shakes him harder, and he pulls back, suspicious, gripping her shoulders.

"Solona—"

" _Kinloch Hold_."

His mouth freezes open, and she smiles and she nods, and his fingers dig into her skin.

"We still need mages!"

"Aren't you... I mean," Alistair frowns, his mind reeling, and his grasp tightens. "Are you sure you want to go back there?"

_Why hasn't it ever crossed his mind_?

"Where else are we going to recruit mages?"

"Oh, I don't know... how many _huts_ do you think there are in Ferelden?"

She smacks him, the broad of his arm barely flinching, and he hums through his nose and her excitement finally reaches his lips. He laughs, _she_ laughs, and for one fleeting moment, the world doesn't seem so dark anymore.

Mages. Tower. Kinloch Hold. And his chest pounds _Cullen_.

"Sooo," he clears his throat once laughter fades, Barkspawn up and ready to go. "When should we leave? Maybe... maybe right now? Not that I'm overeager or anything, but... alright. _I'm overeager_."

"As soon as the sun rises," she giggles low, squeezing his arm one last time before getting up. "Try to get some rest, it'll be a long journey. You can't think of seeing him again with those dark circles under your eyes."

"Oh, he's already seen me at my worst... _trust_ me."

She smiles an enigmatic smile, so soft where her eyes glimmer, and his own expression eases into something gentler before she leaves, because he thinks he knows why she smiles the way she does, and his heart lurches in response.

How he looks doesn't matter—how he _anything_ doesn't matter. Because if Cullen feels even a fraction of what he feels...

...even at his worst, he'll always be the best, and it's how he falls asleep, a conviction in his dreams, that they know each other by heart.


	9. 9:30 DRAGON || THE BROKEN CIRCLE

**9: 30  DRAGON || THE BROKEN CIRCLE  
ALISTAIR**

**" _I just want to run to you  
_** ** _And break off the chains, and throw them away  
_** ** _I just want to be so much  
_** ** _And shake off the dust that turned me to rust_** ****  
—SAVIOR, LIGHTS

_Do not open the door without my express consent. Is that clear?_

_We are dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave, for your own safety._

_I shall speak plainly... the Tower is no longer under our control._

_The Circle is lost._

_The Tower has fallen_.

Abominations. Demons. Blood magic. And somewhere behind closed doors, _Cullen_ , or perhaps not anymore. Greagoir's warnings throb around Alistair's temples as Solona pushes open the gates, and the smell that drifts in nearly causes him to heave. Sulfur. Decay. Carroll's sneer and contempt on the docks are easily forgotten, eclipsed by the view; rotten corpses soak the floor, and every step forward feels like a leap backward. There's a buzz in his ears; he moves in slow motion, or so it feels like, and if he worried about what he might say, when he saw Cullen again, what he might _do_...

...now all he wants is to find him _alive_.

It's the only thing that keeps him alert, a prayer he mouthes with every swing of his blade. It's hard to breathe. He recognizes the uniforms, and underneath plate and cloth could hide Cullen, a shell of the man he loves, and he strikes before helmets fall and he looks _then_ , when they lie defeated on the cobblestone, afraid to see a face he might know.

He strikes first because he doesn't think he could gather enough courage, if Cullen stood possessed in front of him, and his sword slices the air sharp and wild, matching the dissonance of his cries.

How in the blasted _Void_ could Templars let a Tower fall?

Shrieks and screams and laughter rove along with them, louder the further they advance. A mage joins them, Wynne—he remembers her from Ostagar—and she speaks of a revolt, one much too grave to be contained. It's plain to see, a grim spectacle on every floor, and his heart hammers in every inch of him as they skirt around dead bodies—he forces himself to _look_ , his breath heavier the closer he gets, and Solona asks him, _are you alright_ , and no, _no_.

He isn't.

He doesn't need to ask _her_ —he holds her hand, when the pain grows too sharp, but it's hard to find comfort here, where no light seems to shine. They came to find mages only to find _death_ , and the higher they travel, the lower he feels. The casualties of this grisly tragedy are too many. It's nowhere near anything his mind could have possibly conjured on their way here, and he's exhausted. He searches for Cullen and he can't find him, and it drives him mad, _not knowing_ , blinded by dread, frozen by it, and it hurts more than the cuts and burns that freshly slash his skin.

It wouldn't make much of a difference if he was dead. _Technically_. He feels it's what Morrigan would tell him, and to an extent... she'd be right. Loving him is akin to loving a ghost, a presence he can't see, or _touch_ , and it's selfish, but there's a whole world between distance and death, and the latter makes his heart beat differently.

It makes his heart beat empty.

It nearly stops beating altogether once they reach the fourth floor, still panting from a laborious battle against a Sloth Demon. Who would have thought? Even when he thinks he's seen it all, there's a curveball thrown his way, and truth be told, it's unusually welcome; apathy, on the other hand, _isn't_. They can't afford to grow desensitized, not if they mean to stay vigilant, to preserve everything that makes them who they are. Sentient. _Alive_.  

No matter how much it hurts.

The walls drip with blood here, bones and charred skin on the ground, and there's a collective gasp in the air, one they irrationally strive to suppress. It's the sort of horror that's best left unacknowledged, as if ignoring the stone squelching under their feet could somehow lessen the truth of its implications. It _doesn't_ , and a broken plea rises in the false comfort of their silence, a gruff litany that slices through him and grabs him by the throat.

_Cullen_.

His sword and shield drop to the ground in a resounding clang, and he rounds the wall on weakened knees, expectant.

_Scared_.

"...Cullen?"

He feels a hand on his arm—Wynne, a gentle warning—but he doesn't have the heart to heed it and he breaks free, focus sharpened on the man trapped in front of him. The light radiating from the cell is deceiving—it reeks of _darkness_ , and Alistair walks stiff, eyes strained from the pain he still feels in his throat, in his chest, and further down, twisted in his guts.

"Is it... is it really you?" he asks hopeful, _wary_ , and his voice breaks and his nostrils flare, and Cullen groans, shaking his head with his fingers twined in interrupted prayers.

It _is_ him. He can scarcely believe it. He's _alive_ —breathing, however hoarse—and Alistair waits for a wave of relief that doesn't come. Everything feels strangely remote, yet he knows this stance, desolately familiar. He's seen him before, a similar posture whenever he recited the Chant by his bed, and if he wavered ever so slightly after many hours of prayers, now he _sways_ , rocking back and forth as if to shake off an invisible grasp around him. He's drained. Weary. _Agitated_. It's clear in the way his hands tremble, staggering even on his knees and faltering, and when his body sways too much, he falls, onto his side, and Alistair rushes to him.

_Sweet Maker_. Just how long has he been trapped in here? He can feel the atmosphere sapping his own energy and he knows for a fact that Cullen is _endurant_ ; to see him like this, visibly weakened yet still alive, where most of his comrades have fallen, speaks volume of the kind of terror he's just undergone.

"Cullen," he calls him, halted by the barrier, and he watches as Cullen stiffens, only to falter again and brace himself on shaky arms, refusing to look up.

"How far they must have delved into my thoughts..." he rasps, and his voice sounds hollow—it mirrors his expression, a glimpse of his face, haggard, and Alistair's chest tightens with the sting in his eyes. "I know what you are. It... it won't _work_."

_He doesn't think he's real_. An illusion, or worse—a _demon_ —and Alistair drops to a crouch, feeling more helpless than he ever has, a tentative brush of fingers against the barrier. It burns, and he recoils with a hiss, more surprised than hurt, but the ache in his chest doesn't ebb away.

"Cullen, I'm... Don't you recognize me? I'm _here_. It's..."

_It's me_. He doesn't say it—he might have, had it sounded more reliable, but it seems futile and he doesn't know what to do, what to _say_ , because jesting now, however tempting, wouldn't defuse the hint of misery surrounding Cullen, nor would it soothe his own.

"Enough visions," Cullen groans weakly, and he winces and Alistair winces with him, kneeling now, making himself appear as small as he possibly can. "I'm so tired of these cruel jokes, these... these _tricks_. If anything in you is human, kill me now and stop this game!"

"Maker's Breath, _Cullen_. What have they done to you?"

Anger rises, mixed with despair, _sorrow_ , because this isn't like Cullen, defeated, on the verge of surrender, and how must he have suffered, to give up and wish for death?

"The boy's exhausted," Wynne says softly, and Alistair briefly glances her way, clenching his jaw.

"Wynne. Is there... is there _anything_ you can _do_?"

"I don't know, Alistair. This cage... I've never seen—Alistair!"

He doesn't wait for an answer—he lifts his arm, fingers balled into a fist, and both Wynne and Solona _gasp_ as he lurches forward, putting all of his strength in a single blow. It doesn't amount to much—there's _pain_ , mostly, bruised knuckles and burnt skin, and if it doesn't break the barrier, it catches Cullen's attention, straightening and looking up, _at him_ , stealing away what little air Alistair had left in his lungs.

"...Alistair?"

Alistair _breathes_ , a strangled sound in his throat as he nods, and he presses his palm to the cell's wall and he doesn't care that it hurts, because Cullen sees _him_ , forehead wrinkled in disbelief, and the sudden awareness in the gaze they share flows warm around his heart.

"Cullen," he croaks, tears running down his face, and Cullen's eyes water and he crawls up to him, his arm shaking as it reaches up and his hand hovering hesitant over his. "I'm... _It's me._ I'm wearing your _socks_ , I... _Maker_ , I can't believe you're _alive_. I thought you were dead for sure, I was so... I was... _how_ did this happen? How did they... _how_ do I get you out of here? I'm sorry I wasn't... I _couldn't_..."

_Be here_. And if a part of him always is, it feels achingly insufficient now, because no matter how strong, how _true_ , a loving heart isn't enough to keep him _safe_.

"Alistair..."

His palm connects with his through the barrier, sizzling where they touch and oh, _Maker_ , the pain on Cullen's face, in his eyes, plain underneath the newfound warmth Alistair recognizes all too well, the same tenderness reflected in his own. This isn't how he dreamed of seeing Cullen again, a touch that isn't a touch, his strength drained from him, and he cries with him and he smiles through the momentary relief of being reunited, feeling his pulse again.

"Alistair," Cullen whispers once more, as if reacquainting himself with the sound of his name, _real_ , and Alistair sniffles, rubbing the back of his free hand across his eyes. "If... if it really _is_ you... you shouldn't be here. It isn't safe, for any of you."

"We came here to help," Solona approaches, and the glance Cullen shoots her freezes his blood.

Fear. Anger. And flickering just beneath, a hint of something worse. Alistair searches his gaze, noting his stubble, longer than it should be, messy hair and sweat coating his skin, lips chapped. He is but the shadow of himself, and the term couldn't be more accurate—it's exactly what Alistair catches in his gaze, something _dark_ , something that shouldn't be discerned in a glance meant for a friend.

"We came to get help as well," Solona goes on, "although it seems you might need it more than we do. I'm so relieved that you're alive, Cullen. What happened?"

"They caged us like animals," Cullen growls, wavering on his knees, as if unable to decide whether he should stay where he is or recoil, and when his hand drops, when his gaze evades his, Alistair feels the loss in every fiber of his body. "Looked for ways to break us. I'm... the only one left. They've turned into monsters and... there was nothing I could do. And to think I once thought we were too hard on you."

"On us? On mages? Cullen... _this_ is wrong. Not all of us are—"

"Only mages have that much power at their fingertips!" he snaps, and she jerks back, causing him to look down and breathe, cringing as though he doesn't recognize himself. "Some fought back... but even _they_ are lost now. Uldred has them."

"In the Harrowing Chamber?" Wynne asks, and Cullen nods, _sighs_ , a plea in his eyes when Alistair catches his gaze again.

"You have to end it now before it's too late."

"You mean..."

"You have to kill everyone up there, to ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee that no abomination or blood mages live."

Cullen addresses him because he trusts _him_ , his judgment, his education, his _friendship_ , and Alistair _understands_ , but there's so much going on he can scarcely wrap his head around any of this. Drastic times call for drastic measures, _sure_ , but to answer slaughter with slaughter seems a _trifle_ ill-advised.

"Isn't there... any other way?"

There isn't. _He knows_ , and still he hopes, or he _did_ , before Cullen looks at him again, the magnitude and extent of all damages done carved in every line of his face.

"They never prepared us for this," he breathes through clenched teeth, and Alistair would give anything to be able to ease his pain, to brush away the ache wrinkling his lips, his eyes, and to take half his burden upon his shoulders. "I wanted to be a knight... and now I live while my friends lie _dead_ , their bodies and their minds broken... by them!"

"We'll do whatever needs to be done, Cullen," Alistair promises, because he can't do more than _that_ , and it kills him. "I... should have been with you."

He searches his gaze, they search each other, and Cullen finds a smile that wilts too soon.

"You are," he says softly, and he looks away, taking with him the momentary warmth he offered, his walls cracked but steady around him, and Alistair knows he won't be able to reach him any longer. "You _were_. You don't belong here, Alistair. _Go_. And Maker turn his gaze on you."

He _goes_ , not without loitering, watching Cullen pray and hopelessly trying to move, _you don't belong here, Alistair_ , and Wynne guides him away and he follows her, sword and shield heavier in his hands.

As much as he wishes it were otherwise, there _are_ things that are more important than what he _wants_ , and for the first time since he's joined the Grey Wardens, he thinks he finally understands what sacrifices truly mean.


	10. 9:31 DRAGON || SACRIFICES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a fair warning, this chapter includes a somewhat graphic scene of morrigan's ritual, which should certainly be considered dub-con from both sides ~~and maker am i glad this goddamn chapter is done and over with I JUST WANT THEM TO BE TOGETHER AND HAPPY AGAIN FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF~~
> 
> and i'd like to thank artsybecca over @ tumblr for the heartwrenching mention of wynne representing the mother alistair never knew.

**9:31  DRAGON || SACRIFICES  
ALISTAIR**

**"VIR SULAHN'NEHN**  
VIR DIRTHERA  
VIR SAMAHL LA NUMIN  
VIR 'LATH SA'VUNIN **"**  
—LELIANA'S SONG

 

_My father was... King Maric. Which made Cailan my... half-brother, I suppose._

Between Oghren's bawdy observations and Zevran's wiggling eyebrows, Solona gapes, _like a stranded fish_ , and Morrigan scoffs her usual scorn. He couldn't hide it forever, especially not from _her_ , though he suspects she might have already known. She knows too much, in a cryptic, creepy kind of way—mostly creepy—and never quite seems to say what she should. Nearly a year now, and she's yet to crawl into a bush somewhere and _die_. He remembers wishing for it. _Abstractly_. The kind of passing thought that crosses one's mind after a wearing day, borne of unresolved annoyances and lethargy, and when he catches himself entertaining the same obscure notions now, he _cringes_. He's better than _that_ , and of course he is—however much he dislikes her, even she doesn't deserve such a fate, and with his dreams still tainted with screams, with death, and his prayers filled with Cullen, he's not sure anyone does.

But there _are_ exceptions. At least _one_ , behind every rule.

One behind every _ruler_.

He never chased after the throne. He never chased after _anything_ , trapped in a mold since he was a child, and the one thing he could have chased, he _can't_. Not anymore. If walking away from Kinloch Hold shattered his heart, it certainly hardened his spine, and he'll be _damned_ if he lets a Mac Tir rule over Ferelden. However smart and determined she may be, he doesn't trust Anora any more than Loghain; she's her father's daughter, and while he never even wished to embrace his lineage, the alternative isn't an option.

 _Anora_ isn't an option.

Nor is keeping Loghain alive.

He always thought himself expandable. It's what he was taught, after all, discarded like a nuisance until he was shown otherwise. Cullen. Duncan. Solona. Leliana. Wynne. He likes her. He likes most of them, actually, but Wynne... She mends his socks and she heals his wounds, and she indulges him more than she should, when he teases her. She's clever. _Wise_ , but that's to be expected, he supposes, from a woman as old as she. He calls her his favorite lady mage and she laughs, but she's more than that—in many ways, she feels like the mother he never had, and perhaps, to an extent... he's like the son she never knew.

He trusts her judgement, even when she speaks of love and things he doesn't want to hear, and when he kills Loghain, she still looks at him the same. It helps him remember who he is, despite the blood on his hands, when he doesn't deem himself better than the man he slew. His execution doesn't bring Duncan back, or Cailan. It doesn't alter what's been done, broken families and unnecessary atrocities, and truth be told, it's barely satisfying. But the thought of having finally avenged those who fought, those who died to defend the nation Loghain left to rot... it's enough to eclipse a substantial portion of his guilt, and it gives him the strength to vow that it'll never happen again.

Not under _his_ rule.

 

\---

 

His first task as King of Ferelden—and his last duty as a Grey Warden—is to forfeit his sanity.

Solona speaks of sex and Morrigan and his entire being screams _no_. He must have misheard. She must be _joking_. Alistair and Morrigan in the same sentence, an association that somehow equates _sex_ , it shouldn't be, _ever_ , not even in a _nightmare_ , but when Solona doesn't budge, when she urges him to say something with that half-apologetic, half-expectant stare of hers, he fists his hair and he _groans_ , high-pitched, because the Grey Wardens sure never have prepared him for _this_.

Be killed by an Archdemon, _or_ sleep with Morrigan?

How does someone make that kind of _choice_?

 _Why don't_ you _sleep with her_ , he asks her, almost out of _spite_ , and he groans again and _yes_ , he _knows_ ; she lacks the proper parts, Riordan is too old, and the Maker has a terrible sense of humor.

Oghren wouldn't think the task a big deal. No man would, he suspects—she _is_ beautiful, like something that's also dangerous... like a beautiful... _dangerous thing_. Aside from the fact that she's a complete and utter _bitch_ , he can readily admit _that_ , but it's nowhere near enough to stir any desire he might have had for her.

 _You don't have to_ want _her, Alistair_ , Solona encourages him and _oh, great, because I certainly_ don't. He's only ever wanted _one_ man, heart and mind and body, and it's difficult not to think of him now, as if about to defile his memory. He doesn't want her to touch him, nor does he wish to touch _her_ , another sacrifice among many others, and his decision lies where the future of Ferelden teeters, just over the horizon.

He can't quit now. Death has hung over their heads from the beginning, and if he never truly was ready to die, he would have given his life had it been required of him. Now, there's a chance to do more, to change and to _save_ more, lives that matter to him, past and present, and he reluctantly surrenders, thinking of all the things he'll be able to help preserve once this is all over.

Even if it means _sleeping_ with a woman he loathes.

\---

 _Believe me when I say that you will not hate this quite so much as you believe_.

Morrigan's odd reassurances dawdle in his mind as he grips his shaft and tentatively strokes its length, fully immersed under the covers with the object of his aversion right beside him. If this isn't the epitome of _awkward_ he doesn't know what is. Did she really think he was going to just... _do it_? That he'd let her crawl on top of him and welcome her in his arms, his cock at the ready?

Has she not been around at all in the past... oh, _twelve blasted months_?

There's nothing about any of this that he finds remotely appealing. Between Morrigan's impatient scoffs and his own frazzled nerves, he jerks himself with the determination of a desperate man, and in more ways than one, it's exactly what he is. His shaft won't _rise_. It doesn't matter how firmly or gently he rubs his cock; if he feels a certain warmth at the touch of his calloused hand, he feels wrong everywhere else, and facing his death suddenly seems strangely tempting. It doesn't help that she keeps _talking_ , naked atop the sheets and _waiting_ , and when he asks her to _stop_ , piqued and coy and mortified, she _does_ , not without another scoff, and his mind goes where it shouldn't.

It's difficult not to think of Cullen here, when silence falls, when he manages to forget about _her_ , fingers tight around himself. The memories always come naturally, as soon as he closes his eyes, and it wouldn't be very honest of him to deny that he's found pleasure before, in his tent, with his heart and his thoughts filled with Cullen. But he never did, after Kinloch Hold. He couldn't. It hurt too much, and it hurts still—he suspects it always will, until, perhaps, he finds a way to reach him again. Indirectly, if he must, so long as he _does_ , anything to... well. Offer him some peace of mind, if nothing else.

The pain of being so helpless and so _far_ is both physically and emotionally excruciating, and he finds refuge in a place that meant more and less than it should have. When he thinks of the Monastery now, he only remembers Cullen, who wound up meaning everything, and his breath slows down as his mind conjures his smile, vaguely wondering if he'll ever be the same man again. The man who smiled more than he laughed, and when he _did_ , he always did frankly, straight from the heart, melting Alistair's many times over. The man who knew how to be heard yet never stole anyone's spotlight, choosing to shine quietly. The man who respected everyone, no matter their background, and never hesitated to lend a hand. The man whose humor was subdued but _there_ , sometimes wicked, always willing to indulge. The man who blushed at gentle gestures and compliments, who growled at times, when jokes turned indecent, too proper yet unable to fully conceal the lopsided grins he occasionally sported. The man who was equally capable of strength and tenderness, of judgment and compassion, the man who'd chosen _him_ , despite his devotion to the Chantry, and he remembers his lips against his own, his hands cupping his face, and his eyes, so full of the same affection he held for him, and he feels his cock twitch in the crook of his palm.

 _Cullen_...

"Cullen?"

He stills, breathless as he blinks in the dark, his shaft pulsing in his grip. _Maker's breath_ , has he moaned his name _aloud_?

"'Tis taking much longer than it should, Alistair. Are you really sure you—"

"No, I'm not," he cringes, and Morrigan starts lifting the covers and he pulls, _don't even think about it_ , only to let go a moment later, resigned. "Ugh, _Maker_. Let's just... get this over with. I'll... close my eyes and... you do what you have to do before I _change my mind_."

"You—"

"It's now or _never_."

Preferably _never_ , although they both know that there is no turning back now, not if they mean to live.

He doesn't see what happens next. With his eyes tightly shut and his hand clutching the sheets, knuckles white, he grinds his teeth and he _prays_ , striving to keep his mind blank as he works himself towards an unfortunate climax. Morrigan has the decency to give him one moment more, or perhaps the sight of him disgusts her, and it's just as well. He doesn't peek. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, and when he finally lets go of himself, her cue to take over, she _does_ , and just like that, a life is spared.

 _In war, victory_.

And in bed, _agony_. Lulled into a sense of false serenity, he cracks an eye open, without thinking, catching Morrigan's gaze. He might have felt a sliver of guilt had she been anyone else—she's obviously taken no pleasure in this, physical or otherwise, but then again, neither has he. _Not really_. Still, it's _her_ , and he doesn't feel guilty _at all_ , jerking back as awareness creeps back into him, and she rolls off him and he _shudders_ , stumbling out of bed and pulling the sheets with him, loosely wrapped around his waist. She yells and he doesn't care—he storms out of her room and nearly trips in his hurry to _get away_ , stalking the halls as quietly as possible until he reaches the bathrooms and sneaks inside, catching his breath with his back pressed to the stoned wall.

As far as blighted experiences go, he certainly went through _worse_ , but it doesn't stop him from scrubbing himself clean. He hardly felt her touch and he's glad for it—it's not anything he wishes to remember—and he retires to his chamber relieved, knowing that they stand a better chance to survive, and to wipe the taint off his homeland.

\---

He eases into a dream as soon as his mind falls asleep, but there's no song, no cries, and no terror. It's a welcome change from the usual nightmares, and in the waking world, there's a pillow crushed against his torso, a pair of golden rings in the tight grip of his hand. He found them in a rusty coffer, not long after Kinloch Hold, and impulsively had them inscribed*—a song Leliana often sang for him, to soothe his mind—and it's what he dreams of.

Two men, free of shackles, walking hand in hand and in love, in a world where the heart matters more than war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *there's no official lyrics for the origins' love theme, but fans have tried to translate the song and here are the results ([inscriptions on alistair's rings](http://forum.bioware.com/topic/157175-love-song-lyrics/)):
> 
> Estel arda silme  
> Melah melah  
> Estel arda silme  
> oooo nin taen naur  
> melah ialla  
> dihenam linna silevril ten palla
> 
> translation:  
> Hope within moonlight  
> love, love  
> hope within moonlight  
> my longing for you is like fire  
> let our love cry out and shine it's radiant light through all the land  
> 


	11. 9:31 DRAGON || THE BATTLE OF DENERIM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you _so much_ for the positive response and all the wonderful comments. you're my fuel and my smiles, and it probably very literally gives me life ♥ all kinds of feedback are always appreciated!
> 
> also alistair is totally wearing his inquisition warden outfit and i'm sure you'll notice as we go that i'm shamelessly straying from canon things (you can most definitely expect the canon timeline to diverge, for instance!).

**9:31 DRAGON || THE BATTLE OF DENERIM  
ALISTAIR**

**"Bare your blade**  
And raise it high  
Stand your ground  
The dawn will come

**The night is long**  
And the path is dark  
Look to the sky  
For one day soon  
The dawn will come.  
  
—THE DAWN WILL COME

Riordan is the first to fall.

Literally.

It's painful to watch, even from a peripheral view. The Grey Wardens are all that have stood between Darkspawn and Thedas for centuries, and here, on the battlefield, only two of them remain— _less_ , if reinforcement doesn't come soon, but this battle isn't meant for _men_. Their eagerness to fight is nowhere near enough to assure victory, some even younger than _he_ , and it's a grim spectacle, air bloated with the stench of half-death and agonizing bodies everywhere he steps. They'll succumb, eventually—fatal, nonlethal wounds, something worse than death, roused again—and Alistair blocks and lunges with blood and sweat running down his face, eyes red-rimmed from tears unshed. They might have had a better chance, had they been taken seriously, heroes forgotten in favor of _politics_ , and even now, he can't fathom how Loghain ever thought it wise to take that risk. For Ferelden, he claimed.

But Ferelden now crumbles with his memory.

The beast is wounded, roaring atop Fort Drakon. Its call is deafening and the ground shakes with the violence of the Horde, greater than he anticipated. Wynne follows close behind, seemingly omnipresent around he and Solona—she doesn't relent and the moment is hardly appropriate, but he cracks a smile at the sight of her, a force of nature. That frail, old lady act? He never did buy it, and she proves as strong as they all do, healing and protecting when his shield fails him. He ran out of potions a hundred Darkspawn ago, and his breath doesn't fare much better; his flank is exposed, ripped leather and split scalemail, and he feels the burn of his injuries in his lungs. He doesn't think they're _serious_ —if they were, he'd have fallen along with the last of his draughts—but his stance isn't as steady as it should, fatigue cracking through adrenaline.

It's been _hours_. The sun spills over the horizon, and the Archdemon's song grows louder by the second, crimson and shrieks darkening the already grisly scene. Dwarves have come, elves, and the ground quivers with added pressure. There's movement everywhere, senses lost in cacophony; Alistair loses track of Wynne and he searches for her, and in his haste to find her, his focus wanes.

He's on his arse before he's even had time to _turn_ , ankle twisted and sword yanked from his grip, cheek and flank raw with renewed pain. _He can't move_. There's a strangled cry stuck in his throat, crushed with panic; he senses an Hurlock Emissary nearby, but with his vision blurred from shock and the spell paralyzing his limbs, he can only feel his heartbeat _rise_ , incapacitated. The world spins, and he thinks he hears his name, an eerie laugh dribbling out of the Hurlock's bloody mouth. _Maker's breath_. He doesn't want to die. Not now, buried away with his hopes for a better world, not after everything he had to leave behind. There's still so much to do, so much to _try,_ and he glares the fiend down and he feels his voice coming back, a twitch in his fingers as he parts his lips and _roars_.

There's another sound, echoing his own, a flurry of plate and steel dashing forth. He shakes his head, stunned still and sluggish as he struggles to lift his shield, but the blow he's expected never comes. The Darkspawn is knocked over, and Alistair blinks dizzy, regaining his strength as he watches—there's a man towering over the creature, a shield bash to disarm it, and he cries with his foe as his blade pierces its putrid skin, giving Alistair an eyeful of memories.

_A Templar_. He recognizes the sigil etched onto the breastplate, and when his gaze snaps higher to dive into his savior's, his breath leaves him in a rush and his heart thrashes against his ribcage, a sharp thud that momentarily dims his sight.

_Cullen_.

Here, in the flesh, awareness and vehemence in his eyes, and something softer. He wants to ask why, how, he wants to ask _so many things_ , but there's no time to loiter; the Archdemon snarls and growls, and Cullen's already regained the battle, darting through a crowd of Darkspawn tightening around them. Alistair fumbles to grab his sword, toes wriggling in his boots to test his ankle—he feels his socks and his nostrils flare, pressure behind his eyes as he finally finds his balance.

They fight side by side. They fight like they always did before, like nothing's changed, intuitive and indomitable—it seems _unreal_ , and he almost wishes it was. If it were, Cullen wouldn't be here with him, risking his life. He wouldn't lurch in front of him and take blows in his stead, a protective arm to keep him out of harm's way. He wouldn't look _weary_ , cheeks hollower, a good man whose hopes were torn.

And hopes, not unlike spirits, often darken when deprived of meaning.

But it _is_ real, and Cullen _is_ here, and it's nothing more than a delusion, this momentary relief, as though once this is over, he'll find him again. But there's more to his presence here than the Blight, and war never really stops, and politics never really rest. It's why he chose to be King, after all, and beyond this battle, he suspects it's why Cullen chose to remain a Templar.

He leaves his side, ultimately. The Archdemon's strength is visibly withering; he senses it, as does Solona, as do the Darkspawn around them, agitated, more desperate. They fight with increased violence, and so does he—there's anger in the swings of his blade, _anguish_ , and it's enough to bring the beast down to its knees, the only chance they'll get to chop off the snake's head.

It's the only way.

The Archdemon dies the same way it lived; forceful, terrifying, a blast of energy knocking them down and away, splitting the skies. His ears _ring_ , a dull silence as dust and wind wash over them, disbelief in the burgeoning clamor; it explodes in victorious cries and Darkspawn flee and men rejoice, and Alistair _laughs_ , breastplate and scalemail discarded, Wynne and Solona on each side of him.

"We did it!" Solona yells, and she laughs with him and Wynne with them, and for the first time in a year, he feels no burden.

It's an odd spectacle, laughing on his arse as Darkspawn run for their lives, and it subsides to a smile when Leliana surges out of nowhere and lands in Solona's arms, a lover's embrace, tears and relief. His own eyes _sting_ , and he looks around him, so many people still alive, despite their losses, and he stands with his chest crowded, a wave of disquiet tightening his throat.

_Where is he?_

He leaves his sword behind, and his shield, clad in a gambeson as he removes his gloves. His blood pounds loud in his temples, and he scans his surroundings and he grows frantic, hustling his way through bodies and throngs of men.

And he sees him. It gives him pause, halting his steps, and he stills and he stares, with his heart lurching too high, watching Cullen search for _him_. The same desperation creases his face, and Alistair breathes on a single sob, punched out of his lungs the moment Cullen spots him.

And it feels like time, for once, truly stops.

Cullen walks towards him, a sliver of hesitation in his stance, in his eyes, veiled with too much grief. He walks and removes gauntlets and pauldrons, weapons dropped in his wake. He walks, and then he _jogs_ , quicker with every step, and Alistair moves and they rush towards each other, colliding  in urgency.

His name sifts through a muffled noise, and Cullen's arms close around him the moment they touch, Alistair's tight and shaky around his waist. He feels his nose in his neck and his own nudges the side of his head, and he trembles with him, buried into each other's warmth. He smells the same. He _feels_ the same, but his hold has changed, stronger, _fierce_ , because he knows the ache now, where his path splits from his, and it's nothing either of them wishes to go through again.

But they must.

"We're alive," Alistair croaks, because if nothing else, he's grateful for it, and it should be enough.

It isn't.

This is yet another farewell, and he's so tired of saying goodbye. Cullen pulls away, inhaling sharply, as if to gather the kind of strength he doesn't know how to muster anymore. He doesn't go far. They shift together, forehead to forehead, and they clutch each other's faces and they _breathe_ , sighs ghosting over parted lips as Cullen nuzzles the tip of his nose—it's time, ticking again, and Alistair's vision blurs.

"No matter where I go, you'll always be with me," Cullen murmurs, specks of gold in his eyes, watery—his smile is brave, but broken, and he keeps Alistair's head steady against his, his palm warm around his nape.

Alistair feels his fingers tremble in his hair, his own shaky in Cullen's curls, and his heart beats too hard. It's the same promise Alistair once made, the only truth that remains tangible, despite Cullen's previous attempt at keeping him at bay. _You don't belong here_ , and if he doesn't have a place in his vicinity any longer, if he doesn't belong _there_ , Cullen avows that he always will, where it _matters_.

He doesn't think. He sniffles and he looks down, searching his satchel in quick, clumsy gestures. Amidst broken glass and torn bandages, his fingers close around cold metal, twin golden rings, and he takes Cullen's hand and he places one in the crook of his palm, a twisted, wistful curve slanting lips.

"Until we meet again," he breathes, cupping the side of his face as Cullen's fingers close around the ring, and he pulls away, a mournful gaze neither of them wishes to break.

There's nothing more either of them can do, and Alistair memorizes him one last time, his touch, his face, his scent, until Solona approaches and Cullen catches her sight from the corner of his eye. He stares wary, a polite bow to salute her victory—he turns on his heels a moment later and Alistair watches him leave, jaw clenched and breath shortened.

Solona's hand lands on his arm and he faces her, knees weakened from exertion, from desolation. They hug each other and they laugh again, until his shoulders shake harder, until his body trembles with the force of his pain, his relief, his fatigue, and he finally lets go, crying out a year's worth of burdens tossed aside.

In Peace, _Vigilance_.

In War, _Victory_.

In Death, _Sacrifice_.

And in Life...

_Perseverance_.


	12. 9:33 DRAGON || KIRKWALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a million thanks for the kudos, the comments and the feedback, and a special one for starshipsorceress and aeradae @ tumblr for helping me out with alistair's silly questions ♥ ♥

**9:33  DRAGON || KIRKWALL  
CULLEN**

**"When you feel my heat**  
Look into my eyes  
It’s where my demons hide  
It’s where my demons hide

**Your eyes, they shine so bright**  
I wanna save that light  
I can't escape this now  
Unless you show me how"  
—DEMONS, IMAGINE DRAGON

_Knight-Captain_.

Two years, and the title still rings odd to his ears—the impostor's syndrome at its finest. It all happened so fast. Ferelden. Greenfell. Three months there, to help him _level out_ , and just like that, he was promoted, _out of nowhere_ , second-in-command to the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. He didn't question it right away, his mind still too muddled from marred visions. It was somewhat of a relief, if anything, to be _trusted_ , a superior who seemingly shared his views, seriously enough to take him under her wing. Now, when he ponders the circumstances of his promotion, back when twisted rumors clung to his every step, he's not entirely sure why Meredith chose _him_ , and as time passes, he's not entirely sure whether _he_ chose wisely.

Rumor had it that he'd slaughtered mages in a fit of rage, just before being sent to Greenfell. He doesn't blame gossipers; his heart, at times, had been dark enough to entertain such thoughts, and it still is, to an extent, however distorted the slander. He _did_ kill mages. Abominations, no longer human, the same demons that plague his mind now, night and day, Uldred's depravities a wound that can't seem to heal. It's the part of the story that's always left out, the part that haunts him, and _that_ pain, however grievous, is almost a luxury—he's _alive_ , and none of his comrades can claim the same. But he doesn't bear scars. He's cut open, bleeding still, and Meredith _had_ to know, before she recruited him, and sometimes, he feels as though it's the only part of the story that _she_ wanted to hear.

He doesn't hate mages, not really. He _fears_ them, and there's so much more he wishes he could have done, back in Ferelden. Meredith's methods are much harsher than Greagoir's, but they ensure safety, for everyone, and he'd loath himself even more than he does now, should a repeat of Kinloch Hold happen here. It's difficult to treat them otherwise, knowing how much power they possess, the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique. There isn't much else in this world with such destructive abilities, and it seems rational, to lock away a legitimate threat.

But is it _right,_ and is it truly legitimate?

It's something he's come to mull over frequently, in the confines of his quarters, when his mind still screams too loud. His faith remains, but his ideals are blurred—he never imagined the world could be so vile, or perhaps he simply _hoped_ it wasn't. It's what he ponders, when his thoughts scuttle, unfinished letters he means to send but never does, and his fingers drum against the parchment, focus sharpened on the cool sensation against his chest. He wears Alistair's ring around his neck, always there over his heart, and there's a letter for him as well, just beside his sister's. He can't find the words to express how he feels, how much he misses and loves them both, and when he stalls too much, pen immobile in his hand, he thinks it's better to let them forget. He can't even remember the last time he _smiled_. What would they think, if they saw him now. What would they _see_. Would they sense his anger, towards himself, towards the world? Would they sense his helplessness, a pawn in Meredith's grasp who, despite growing doubts, still follows her drastic whims? What would they say, if they saw him shake whenever the moon rises, if they saw _him_ , a man whose purpose is to protect people, curled up like a child with dreams he can't chase away, a sobbing mess in his bed? Would they pity him? Would they lament the man he's become, the man he can scarcely face in a mirror?

He remembers Amell, from Kinloch Hold. He remembers her after the tragedy, when he couldn't bring himself to look at Alistair again, unwilling to taint him with a heart too dim. He remembers his warning, just before they all left— _if you so much as lay a single finger on him, I swear I'll come for you_ —and when he closes his eyes, he remembers what she said:

 

> _I can't pretend to know what you've been through, Cullen, but I didn't choose to be a mage. **You** chose to be a templar. When this is all over, try to remember who I was, before this happened. Your **friend**. You don't need to be a mage to harm people._
> 
> _If you—_
> 
> _I'll take care of him. If you know him as well as you claimed you did, you should know that he has all the reasons in the world to hate it. But he doesn't. Try to remember that as well, when you feel yourself slipping away. You're a good man. He told you that, and I believe it. Don't let your fears turn you into something you're not. It's what usually causes mages to go too far_.

She reminds him of Mia. She would tell him the same, and perhaps slap some sense into him, and the thought causes his lips to twitch, a sullen curve. _You don't need to be a mage to harm people_ , and every day, he wonders just how many people _he's_ harmed, for the sake of safety.

There was a girl, a few months ago, no older than six, asking her father why so many dogs were caged as they walked through Lowtown. The apostate he was tracking escaped him like water slipping through his hands, and the man's answer gave him pause, slowing him down in his search. The dogs were caged because one of them had bitten a child, and when the little girl asked whether they could release the others, the man simply shook his head, and she cried.

It made him feel unkind. He so desperately wants to be right, to do well and to protect, like he's always wished, and he doesn't know how to oppose Meredith, when she strays from what he believes in. She encourages him and he trusts her—he can't bring himself to look at mages the same way he looks at everyone else, but when he thinks of that little girl, he sees himself in her father, he sees who he once was in _her_ , and it's hard to remember now, how it's supposed to feel, with his mind clogged with fears.

It's easier when he sits at his desk and reminisces, a simple candle to light the room. The ring glows a radiant gold in the crook of his palm, surrounded by shadows—he knows the engraved words by heart, and what they mean. He can almost feel _him_ , when he smoothes his thumb over their shapes, and even now, he carries Alistair the same way he always has, with everything he has and everything he is... but it doesn't seem enough, and he doesn't feel _worthy_ , to hold a man as bright as he in a place so dark.

He misses him. Alistair's near death... it shook him, and for the first time since he became a Templar, he truly considered leaving. His childhood dreams never really included a family, but every time he feels the ring around his neck, against his skin, he wonders whether he's where he should be, or whether he's doing what he should.

His breath comes short whenever he thinks of him, an ache in his throat, watering his eyes. He'd give more than he's allowed, more than he can admit, for a chance to be with him again. To stare into his amber gaze and watch his smile bloom, to kiss the dimples there, on his freckled cheeks, and breathe in his scent. To hear his laugh, often prompting his own, and touch his hand and cup his face, and feel his fingers brush through his curls, supple lips pressed to his. To feel his strength, and to listen to him, idealistic views he so hopelessly needs now, because however naive, Alistair always made things _work_ , seeing the best in everything. Seeing the best in _him_. He'd give anything to just _hear him_ again, to be awakened in the middle of the night by one of his numerous—and often unnecessary—reflections, no matter how much sleep it cost him:

 

> _How big do you think the largest wheel of cheese ever made was?_
> 
> _What do you think nugs dream about?_
> 
> _Do you think clouds look down on people and think "oh look that one's shaped like an idiot!"?_
> 
> _I still think about that night, you know. When we were stranded together. I thought we'd die. It was un **bear** able._
> 
> _Did you hear about the recruit whose whole **left** side was cut off? No? Weeell. He's all **right** now._
> 
> _We'd probably be just as efficient even if we weren't sworn to the Chantry, you know. Take Marabis, for example. Strong. Smart. Loyal. And I doubt they're Andrastian._
> 
> _I just dreamed I was dancing the Remigold. **In a dress**._
> 
> _Did you... read that story? You know the one, with the... the Templars. Women, both of them. Caboodling._
> 
> _What if we take our vows and... you know. What if we **fall** for someone._
> 
> _Do yooou think a man could also... fall. For another?_

How glaringly obvious it seems now, everything Alistair tried to tell him, and among the many regrets Cullen bears, he wishes he had surrendered sooner.

He almost stayed, after the battle. Once the Archdemon was slain and Alistair was in his arms again, it felt like it should be, _where_ he should be, and when he wakes at night, roused from nightmares, he doesn't know why he keeps denying him, denying _them_ , the happiest part of him. He _wants_ to be with him. To be his. To be each other's. It is as simple _and_ as complicated as that. But Alistair is King now, and it's humbling and it's inspiring, everything he's done, and Cullen is so damned proud of him.

_He_ , on the other hand, hasn't done much to warrant any kind of pride, and perhaps it's better this way, to keep away, to let him forget. He doesn't think he deserves him, or his affection, and until he does, he can't allow himself to reach out for him.

The same thoughts bombard his mind, every night, hopes and confliction, and when he's too tired to think, he falls asleep atop his desk, face buried in the crook of his arm. The candle's flame oscillates weakly, until it doesn't, letters untouched and room shrouded in darkness. He sleeps disturbed dreams, twitches in his limbs when they grow harsher, tears down his cheeks when they turn somber.

And aside from the demons he constantly struggles to repel, he's alone.


	13. 9:34  DRAGON || DENERIM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I AM. SO. SORRY. IT'S BEEN OVER A YEAR SINCE MY LAST UPDATE and oh my god i'm not entirely sure this even delivers. i promise there'll be more cullen/alistair centric chapters in the future (I MEAN OBVIOUSLY!!) but. yeah. you guys are the best for leaving comments even NOW and cheering for this stupid fic that i love too much. let's hope i haven't forgotten how to write. thank you for your endless patience and i love you ♥

**9:34  DRAGON || DENERIM**  
ALISTAIR  


_Can I let the trees do the talking_   
_Can I let the ground do the walking_   
_Can I let the sky fill what's missing  
_ _**—THE LISTENING, LIGHTS** _

 

Her name is Elissa Theirin née Cousland, and she is the Queen of Ferelden.

His _wife_.

She took his name and she wears his ring around her dainty finger, and he wears _hers_ , where another should be, a pendant around his neck that he realizes must remain hidden. As if disgraceful. As if shameful. Oh, it's certainly scandalous for a King to favor a man over his Queen, a man he hasn't seen in _years_ —he won't argue _that_ —but the real shame, he finds, is to be coerced into concealing the only truth he's ever known. Every day he reminds himself of the reasons he chose to embrace his royal lineage, and he doesn't _regret_ it, but making things better never included _marriage_.

He understands. _Of course he does_. Ferelden without a Queen isn't Ferelden, especially since the Blessed Age, when his grandmother led the Fereldan Rebellion. The populace demanded it. Eamon strongly suggested it. They expect children, but Alistair knows better, as they should. _He's barren_. The chances of giving Elissa a child are slim at best, impossible at worst, and even if the odds were in his favor, even if he could procreate, like a man untainted... _well_.

It'll never amount to much, if he can't bring himself to lie with her.

He likes her. He doesn't like _like_ her, but he likes her enough, and sometimes, when it comes to arranged marriages, it's all that matters. She seems to return the same kind of amity and it's certainly more than what most can hope for, yet it's less than what they both deserve. It's nothing he ever relished. Marrying her. Sleeping with her. It's naught but another sacrifice, among many others, and he doesn't think it'll ever end. He's more or less resigned now, to live a life that'll never truly belong to _him_ , and he catches himself sometimes, daydreaming when he shouldn't, nobles and missives to answer...

...what would his life be like, if he'd eloped with Cullen, the night where both of their fates were sealed?

But he can't entertain such thoughts. Not now, privileged when so many still aren't, and he knows what it's like, to live on the lower end of everything, and he owes it to them to behave selflessly. It's easy enough when he knows he's making a difference. Orlais hopes to strike while the iron is still hot, waiting in the wings, and if they have spies, _he_ has Leliana, keeping him _au courant_ of everything. He still doesn't know how she manages that, but thanks to her, he can focus on the things that matter. Rebuilding. Protecting. The Alienage was refurbished, for one, an integral part of Denerim, rather than a pigpen left to rot. An elf was made Bann, equal voices in his council, and the changes are slow but they are _there_ , and he likes that people seem to warm up to his ideas. He feels _useful_ , and if Ferelden is still weak, _he_ is _not_ , he tries _not_ to be, and he won't let anyone down.

Except. _Well_. Maybe he will.

Starting with himself.

He can hear her, footsteps echoing down the hallway, pausing, _nearing_ , halting again. How many times has she made her way to their bedroom, only to retreat? How many times has _he_? Nearly three months now, and he's barely touched her. He shook her hand, sure, and often offered his arm, when they walked in the gardens, but _here_ , in the comfort of his bed, he hasn't done anything.

Neither of them _did_ , the first night, lying stiff side by side. He'd wished her a good one, croaked out of a half-chuckle, and they'd both rolled over, as if they hadn't just been married. As if they had no duty, as if the ring they wore meant nothing. As if all was well with the world, when it was everything _but_. It would have been so much easier, had it remained that way, but her conscience clearly screamed louder than his own. She _tried_ , after he'd convinced himself she found him absolutely repulsive, and the moment she turned to him, her cool fingers on his shoulder, _he chickened out_ , jumped out of his skin _and_ out of bed, suddenly remembering he hadn't fed Barkspawn.

It didn't stop there.

He feigned headaches. Cramps. Stayed up longer than he should, and fell asleep in the kitchens. Coughed deeper than needed, overstayed his welcome during royal visits, and altogether _avoided_ her, as soon as he finished supper. It's usually when he breaks out in a cold sweat, a nug on hot bricks, and he watches time pass and he hopes it'll stop somehow, or perhaps skip the darkest hour.

It never does.

He knows he won't be able to elude her forever. He knows he shouldn't, and it's oddly difficult, to come to terms with this, even though he's already slept with Morrigan. This is different. There's no life to preserve here, no world to _save_ , other than a bloodline, and sure, _that's_ important, _he gets it_... and he doesn't. Theirin never meant much of anything, until a few years ago. It was a name, nothing more, and now it's a nation, an army, an influence and an authority. A _future_. He has to face what it means, even if he isn't sure what _he_ means, or who he is, really, no father, no mother, only a throne, and it's a relic he can't relate to.

He isn't sure he can relate to anything, actually.

He wishes he could make her happy. He knows he can't. Every time he leaves her, there's a dimmer glint in her eyes, and he doesn't want to hurt her and he hates that he does, and he doesn't know how to fix it, to mend everything without doing what he has to do.

He can't afford to flee any longer.

He doesn't.

The door opens and she glides in, graceful as she is, wearing nothing but a flimsy, lilac robe. There's determination in her frown, her face framed by wavy black hair, brushing past her shoulders and lower still, teasing the generous curves of her breasts. She's beautiful. Full-figured and voluptuous, a warrior maiden, with eyes the color of rainy skies and lips he suspects might have occupied the fantasies of many men.

He wishes he was one of them.

Her skin shimmers gilded in the starlight, filtered though the stained glass of the window, accentuated by the candle's flame set upon the night table. It flickers in her wake, and he tenses, gripping the sheets, his chest crowded with a breath he won't release. She's careful, gracing him with an easy smile, however quivery, and she slithers up to him and she straddles him, her hands slipping warm underneath the hem of his nightshirt.

"My lady—"

"Shhhh," she silences him, a simple shake of her head, and he swallows hard and she roams her palms across his torso, rolling her hips with the motions of her fingers.

_Maker's breath_.

It could be pleasurable. He never doubted _that_. She's kind, intelligent, and undeniably alluring, moving against him with refined poise, a trifle hesitant. She grabs his wrist with the same gentle uncertainty, and she guides him to her breast, lifting, squeezing, kneading through the thin fabric, and his shaft swells under her ministrations, his breath quietly rasping out of his throat. She feels him. He knows. She moves faster, clutching his fingers, and she moans and his heart beats faster, and he wishes it was purely out of desire.

It isn't.

There's something in his guts that _churn_ , rising up and spreading where he feels like he can't breathe, cold shivers running down his spine. He can't help responding to the friction, and sure enough, she _is_ attractive, but his mind isn't here, with her, nor is his heart, and his throat feels tighter with all the things he wishes to say but can't. His tongue is tied, his head frozen, and he can't seem to move, still beneath her, his jaw growing sore from clenching his teeth too hard.

Duty. Ferelden. Heir. Theirin.

_He can't._ He can't go through this again, closing his eyes and seeing Cullen, feeling him, in every inch of his being, while being with her. He can't do this if he doesn't love her, and it wouldn't matter, if she were a man instead; he still wouldn't be Cullen.

"My lady."

She shushes him again, thrusting her hips, tightening his grip around her breast, and he pulls his hand away and he grabs her wrist instead, _both_ , forcing her to slow down and pause, blinking dazed above him.

"Elissa," he says, softer than his grip, and her eyes widens dim again and he winces and she rolls off of him, and in that very moment, he's fairly certain he hates himself.

She catches her breath, sitting still beside him, her gaze fixed upward—he only knows because he casts her a sidelong glance, eyebrows pinched uneasy, remorse and guilt, because she deserves so much better.

"I'm sorry. I..."

"Do you find me...  repugnant?"

"What? Repu... no! Maker, _no_ ," he bolts up, turning to her without hesitation and taking her hand, bringing it up to his lips for the first kiss he's ever given her. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. It isn't..."

_It isn't you, it's me._

_Argh_.

"Elissa," he breathes in, momentarily closing his eyes as he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and he exhales and he looks at her again, offering her what he hopes to be a reassuring smile. "You're everything a man should desire. Strong, resourceful. Kind. Dutiful. You've succeeded where I failed, and I... I'm _sorry_. I know it's my duty. _Ours_. And there's definitely nothing wrong with _you_ , trust me. I don't know if I... if I can make you happy. I'm more than willing to _try_ , but I can't... I can't give you _this_. You deserve a man who loves you without restraint, a man whose affection can be fully yours... and I can't be that man."

She moves, sits up beside him, and he tenses and he doesn't know what to expect, her stare inscrutable. Words never were his forte— _string_ of words, perhaps, and sure enough, they come from the right place, but he fears he's spoken out of line again, and the last thing he wants is to hurt her.

Or to anger her.

He doesn't. He _thinks_ he doesn't, because she _smiles_ , her eyes void of grief, and it seems genuine, a hint of relief in their depth. It's the same kind he feels wavering in his breath, laced with mild confusion, and if he wonders whether it's a trap— _briefly_ —once she speaks again, he wonders no more.

 "Who is she?" she asks, as gently as she always does, and it almost seems as though it was exactly what she wanted to hear.

"I... what?"

"I saw  your pendant," she goes on. "With the ring. Who is she?"

_She_. He sighs, _smiles_ , a trifle uneasy as she lets his hand go and settles more comfortably beside him, seemingly ready for a conversation he's postponed for months. She deserves to know. The why, the _who_ , and everything else in-between, because if he can't give her his heart, he doesn't mind letting her in.

He _wants_ to.

And it's exactly what he does.

He speaks of Cullen the same way he's always spoken of him, unrestrained, even on forbidden ground, and it's nothing more than string after string of words unbridled, but they mean everything and she seems to understand. _You love him_ , she says, not without a smile, and oh, he _does_ , he always has, even before he knew, and if he demonized himself many times before, for a truth he couldn't deny, _she_ doesn't, and he feels liberated.

"You need not say any more, Alistair," her smiles widens, and she cups his cheek and she breathes in, and he thanks her silently, a smile of his own as an odd sense of comfort eases upon them. "I, too, lost my greatest love. I... dreaded bedding you, truth be told, and I assure you that my pride was more affected than anything else. I care for you a great deal. I would enjoy being your friend, but what of... what of your heir?"

"Ah... Well. You know being a Grey Warden makes it nearly impossible to produce children," he winces on a short exhale, a subject he's exhausted on deaf ears. "I'm not even sure it'd work if we... if we _did_ anything. I mentioned that many times, of course, but who listens to Alistair? I caved. I shouldn't have, I... Do you? Want. An _heir_? Because _now_ you're here and married to me and I feel like I'm bound to make you unhappy."

"Being your friend would make me happy, Alistair."

His chest tightens, a forlorn curve twisting his lips.

"And you don't... care. About an heir?"

"I was ready to tackle my duties... But I was forced into this marriage exactly as you were. I love children. There was a time when I would have loved having my own, but he... Gilmore. After he died, I  never could imagine having children with anyone else."

And this is it. One of worst conversations he's ever had, as far as affliction goes, and he feels _relieved_. He feels like an _arse_ as well, but he knows her pain, to an extent, and he can't help being himself.

"We could adopt dogs, you know," he tries, a half-shrug, and she laughs and he laughs with her, and when they stop, when smiles linger and sorrow looms over them, he grabs her hands, the same awareness in her eyes, and being King doesn't feel so lonely anymore.

"Tell me about him," he says, gentle, and she does.

She does until the sun comes up, and they find solace in their losses, thrown together by force yet united by choice. She's not Cullen, and he's not Gilmore, but _they_ have each other and it's enough, for now, a friend by his side and a precious ally, one who _knows_ , the same battlefield in her heart. It's enough, and perhaps it's time to look forward, wherever it might lead.

And whatever happens, he hopes there'll be dogs.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Missed You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202625) by [tklivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory)




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